


Blackening Sky

by DJClawson



Series: Acts of Deliberate Intent [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animal Abuse, Avatar Universe Fusion, Black Sky, Depersonalization, F/M, Gen, Kink Meme, Matt and Foggy are platonic soulmates, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), The Chaste, The Hand, Torture, Winter Soldier-ization of Matt, Yeah you got that last tag right, drug addiction and withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 59,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4239552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJClawson/pseuds/DJClawson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of the blue, Matt Murdock goes missing. One year later, he comes back as a much different person.</p><p>Filling Daredevil Memes: "Wintersoldierification of Daredevil" and others</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to combine fills, which turned into a massive story. This story will draw on ideas from the comics about the Chaste and the Hand, but not particularly adhere to canon. 
> 
> This work was beta-ed by marmolita!
> 
> Prompts filled:  
> Matt/Any - Matt meets the Avengers  
> Matt gets captured, torture depersonalization porn  
> Matt/Foggy, Matt/Karen, or OT3: lite wintersoldierification of daredevil
> 
> Check out my Daredevil tumblr: devilofmidtownwest.tumblr.com/

Prologue

It was her last appointment of the day, and it was late. She usually didn’t do new patients at five in the afternoon, particularly on a winter day where the sun was already setting, but it was hard to say no to a sorority sister, particularly a fellow pledge.

“Look, it was hard enough for me to talk him into it,” Marci said over the phone. “Maybe he won’t show and then you can bill him and go home early. He won’t get away. I’ve got his credit card.”

So Stahl still wasn’t above stealing a boyfriend’s wallet, though in the old days it was to buy something for herself, not hold it hostage and extract promises of seeking medical treatment. They weren’t dating anyway, anymore – Marci was _way_ too clear on that – but she still cared for the guy, something she did not have to say, and Marci Stahl did not care for a lot of people. So Heather said yes.

To be fair, her new patient did look like talking might do him some good. His long hair was wet from the icy drizzle and his clothing was crumpled. Despite still being over what a doctor might consider an ideal weight, his suit was hanging off him, indicating recent weight loss, but his pallor didn’t give the impression that he was out getting a lot of exercise, even just an inside gym with large windows. “Hi.” His palm was sweaty. “I’m sorry – I’ve never done this before.”

She didn’t say that he couldn’t have made that more obvious. “Everyone has a first time,” she said reassuringly. He handed over the medical forms, covered in a furious scribble that probably broke the cheap pen, and she made her introductions and the preliminary questions. Was he taking any medication? No. Did he have any medical history she should be aware of? No.

He was the one who mentioned Marci. “She said – well, I guess it doesn’t matter. She said you were good.” He didn’t make eye contact. He slumped into the opposite armchair and his gaze darted across the old carpet.

She didn’t go into the relationship – that was her personal life, and that was private. Patient-doctor boundaries were important. “We’ll see what I can offer you. Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re here?”

Foggy – that was his name, improbably, on the form – sighed in a way that conveyed not only how tired he was but how unable he was to release any tension. He did not relax on the exhale. He looked at her coffee table. “So I have this friend, Matt. More than friend. Everything. Law school roommate. Best friend. Wingman. Platonic soulmate – whatever you want to call it.”

She cautiously asked, “Romantic partner?”

“Not – okay, once or twice in college, but it did not become a thing. If it had been a thing we would be married by now and have adopted a whole bunch of kids from Guatemala or something.” He tried to smile, but it died on his face. “We did our first internship after law school together, we took the bar together, we started our own firm because we were stupid and we wanted to save the world, not work for corporations.” He shook his head. “I hate talking about him in the past tense, but I slip sometimes. It’s happening more and more.”

She said as gently as possible, “What happened to him?”

“He disappeared. Six months ago.” Foggy swallowed. He was already choking back tears. “There one night, gone the next day. If you live anywhere near midtown, you might have seen the posters. I put a lot of them up myself. The police think – I know they think he’s dead. Someone doesn’t just disappear like that and stay alive. There would be a ransom. Or something.”

This was not the time to make any guesses. “Why don’t you just go over what happened, exactly? In your words?”

He looked up. Some smidgen of eye contact, like he was trying to prove to her that he was brave enough to do this. “It was just an ordinary night. We got off work, we went to a bar, had some drinks with Karen. She’s – was – our secretary. Matt left nine, maybe nine-fifteen. He didn’t live far, didn’t take a cab. And that was the last time anybody saw him.” He shook his head. “The next day, he didn’t show up for work. I didn’t think anything of it. He could be like that. Weird hours. I left a bunch of messages on his phone, mocking him for poor attendance record at work, but he didn’t answer, so at lunch, I went to his apartment. Nothing. The place was spotless. Like he hadn’t been there. And then I noticed his coat wasn’t there, and his briefcase wasn’t there, and the files he was supposed to take home to review weren’t there.”

“So he hadn’t been home.”

“I didn’t want to call the police. I didn’t want it to be that. So I just kept calling his phone. Eventually, someone picked up.” Foggy took an extra moment between sentences. “It was someone who heard the phone ringing when she went to put out her trash. His phone was in the dumpster. Cracked, blood on it, but it still worked. It was three blocks from the bar – that’s how far he made it.” He held up his hands. “And that’s the only shred of evidence the police ever found. It went to missing persons, and they did take it seriously. Extra seriously, because he has a disability. Matt is blind. People think he’s easy to take advantage of, but he wasn’t.” He frowned. “ _Isn’t_.”

“People with physical disabilities are an at-risk population,” she said, choosing her tone as carefully as her words. She didn’t want to sound patronizing, or even be mistaken for patronizing. “Do they have any suspects?”

“You remember Wilson Fisk? The guy running the criminal empire in Hell’s Kitchen?”

She nodded. “Everyone thought he was a big philanthropist who was going to save the neighborhood by pouring money into it.”

“Yeah, well he did pour a lot of money into things,” Foggy said. “Matt and I were the attorneys for Detective Hoffman, the crooked cop who turned FBI information. His deposition sank the whole thing, and a lot of people went down with it. So obviously that was our first thought. Hoffman was in protective custody, so maybe they took Matt, and I might be next. I had to go live in a safehouse for the first few weeks. So did Karen. We were freaked out, but I didn’t care about my safety. I wanted to be looking for Matt.” His eyes wandered. He hunched over, nervously twiddling his thumbs. “Nothing went anywhere. It didn’t affect the case. Hoffman was done anyway, with his statement on record, off to witness protection. And there was a ton of other evidence to indict Fisk, even before he had a SWAT team on his payroll shoot at the FBI. They’re still assembling all of the charges. There’s a massive amount of material. And when Matt went missing, I had to recuse myself, so I’m done. It was how I got out of protective custody. The police found no connection, the FBI found no connection ... There was no connection.”

“Do you believe that?”

Foggy shifted nervously in the chair. His eyes went down again. “I did something really, really wrong. Something I could be disbarred over. Or should have, I don’t know.” His face was flushed from biting back tears. “I went to Fisk. He’s in a maximum facility ward but I was friendly with a guard, so I got ten minutes with someone who was not supposed to have any visitors without his lawyers. It was through glass with the telephone and as I sat down I realized that for months this case had been my life, up to his arrest, and I had never seen him in person,” he said. “He’s big. He’s massive. I should have been terrified. But he looked so sad. Like a big ... I don’t know, baby. Who, you know, killed people. He decapitated someone with a car door. And here he was, pretty much toothless. Defeated. And he didn’t know who I was.”

He paused, and she waited patiently. He didn’t need further prodding.

“He knew about us – Hoffman’s attorneys. His personal assistant or whatever, this guy named Wesley, who’s also missing, hired us to defend someone in Fisk’s empire. It was our first case. But Fisk didn’t have a direct hand in it. He didn’t know us from anyone else, or I thought he didn’t, until I said we had been working for Mrs. Cardenas – another person who’s dead, every around me is dead – in a tenancy case. Then he remembered that he’d met Matt at his girlfriend’s art gallery. They spoke for maybe a minute. He even – Fisk even spoke of him like he admired Matt’s conviction. What kind of bullshit was that?” Foggy hastily wiped his face. “He sounded so ... genuine. When I told him about Matt, he looked _upset_. He said he had no idea. He had almost no access to outside information, especially the news, so it made sense, but – “ And here he needed another break. “So I offered him a deal.”

This time he needed a little push from her. “What kind of deal?”

“I said – and to be clear, this didn’t actually happen, it was only words – I said I could get my hands on some of the paperwork about the tenancy case and his dealings with Union Allied, and I could destroy some evidence. Not a lot. Maybe enough to get a few charges dropped. I told him that was what I could offer him, if he could tell me where Matt was.” He added, “Matt would have never approved. Maybe never forgiven me. But I would have done it. I would still do it.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Fisk looked at me, with those big stupid sad eyes of his, and he said, ‘That’s very generous of you. I know how hard this is for you, and while I’d like to accept, I don’t make promises I can’t keep.’ He didn’t know where Matt was. He didn’t know anything about it. And he was trying to comfort me.” He coughed down a sob. “That fucker was trying to _comfort me_. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me. I wanted my friend back!”

His fists were balled in anger but the torrent finally came as he hunched over further and sobbed uncontrollably in his seat. Heather said nothing. She leaned over and nudged the box of tissues next to him to indicate that they were there. He would eventually need them, but she didn’t push. He said things, mostly incoherent ramblings about wanting Matt back, wanting his friend back, over and over, until he finally went for the tissues. Heather knew what he was going to do next. He wasn’t wrong.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was muffled and his nose was filled with liquid. “I’m really sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Mr. Nelson. It’s what I’m here for.”

“Foggy,” he said. “I know – I’m still sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

He took a deep breath. He was probably debating if he was done crying and had it in him to continue. “It’s not just Matt now. Everyone’s left. I guess I didn’t have a lot of people in my life before, but ... Karen, our secretary? She’s gone. She saved and moved to LA. She’s waiting tables, trying to get into acting. She said she was sorry. She really was. But she couldn’t stay. The situation was eating her alive. She was wasting away and she was already thin. I told her to go. I said I wanted her to go, but it was a lie.” He wiped his nose. “Marci said she couldn’t put up with it. It was this huge black cloud over me. Not the words she used – way more cursing – but it was fair. I didn’t disagree with her. I’m a shitty person to be around right now. And Matt had a friend, Claire, an ER nurse. She transferred to a hospital in Brooklyn. She’s subletting her apartment because she said she doesn’t want to be in it anymore. So that’s it. Everyone’s gone. Everyone’s given up. But I can’t.” There was some determination in his voice. “I’m stuck. I’m stuck in this awful place. It’s so bad sometimes I wish Matt was dead. I still have alerts in my email for bodies that wash up in the Hudson. If he was dead, if we had a body – it would be over. I could move on. And I would be so, so grateful for that. Is it okay that sometimes I wish my best friend dead?”

“It’s not at all uncommon,” she assured him. “It happens with the caretakers of the terminally ill. They’re already grieving even if the person isn’t dead, but they still have to take care of the person. And wishing him dead won’t actually make it happen. His situation is out of your hands now.”

Foggy nodded. He looked like he desperately wanted to believe her. “So what am I supposed to do? Without betraying Matt?”

“Well, you say you’re stuck,” she said. “Maybe you could try taking a step forward.”

*******************************

Another six months. Another six months of calendar pages and days lost in Foggy Nelson’s shitty, miserable life. 180 days of trudging back and forth to work, to school, and to the therapist, and basically nothing else.

He still hated his life. It was still shitty. It was still empty, devoid of purpose, lacking meaning. But it was a little different. He was no longer notching new holes in his belt. He was an unhealthy weight, but in the usual wrong direction of too much, and he had a bit more energy because he was reminding himself to eat. He was on anti-depressants, and they weren’t so terrible. They gave him dry mouth but it was easier to sleep. They didn’t make him feel less like a person like he thought they might. He still missed Matt. He still cried about Matt. He still occasionally felt like his world was over with Matt gone. But it was easier to carry that and still manage to sew some grotesque form of a life together.

He left the office late on Wednesdays. It was one of the few days he didn’t either have class or have to TA an undergraduate seminar. At the advice of an old colleague from Landman and Zack, he was now a PhD student at NYU’s law school, complete with a short, well-trimmed beard that made him look more like he belonged there. His practice was still open, but he was not a defense attorney. Not without Matt. He couldn’t do trials without him. He worked as a notary, he wrote a lot of wills, and he cut deals for juvenile offenders so their records would be clean as adults, but he didn’t go in front of a jury. He knew his limitations.

At 4 pm, his secretary went home. She was nineteen, going to Baruch College, and not a particularly personable woman, but she answered the phones and made it seem more like a real office. They didn’t talk outside of what was required for business, and they didn’t need or want to. It was okay. After she was gone, he would look through his window and wonder what might have been, and whether it was right to convert Matt’s office into file storage, but he couldn’t let himself circle too much around those thoughts.

Sometimes he did anyway.

It was almost ten when he finally locked up. Having work to do was good, but it was getting backed up by school, and that was bad for business. When he stepped into the crisp autumn air he was tired, so tired that he didn’t notice the car parked in the no-standing zone or the woman standing in front of it until he was up close. “Oh! Excuse – “

“Are you Franklin Nelson?” she said, making it very clear that she needed the answer quickly. She did not sound patient.

Foggy blinked in the darkness, making out not a lot about her dark pantsuit, but he did notice her red hair and severe expression. “People call me Foggy.”

“You filed the missing persons report for Matthew Murdock and listed yourself as the non-police emergency contact.”

He nodded, a lump suddenly in his throat. He couldn’t think, he didn’t know what to think, he only managed to sputter out and answer of, “Yeah, I – “

She had a perfume bottle in her hand. No, something else. He was pretty sure perfume wasn’t supposed to make you that sleepy.

He didn’t even remember hitting the ground.


	2. The Mission at Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to assume you know who the Avengers are. 
> 
> Previews at my Tumblr, DevilofMidtownWest, which I have become really invested in for some reason. I don't know. I guess I just have a lot to say about Daredevil.

Chapter 2

One Day Earlier

Natasha completely blamed Clint Barton for this.

The jet trip was not overwhelmingly long, enough to carefully go over mission requirements and maybe watch a movie or two, and so far Steve – Steve freakin’ Rogers – had spent all of it playing _Call of Duty_.

Which he should not have liked. Something was wrong with the universe.

“What?” Clint said with his best innocent face, which wasn’t very good in general. “Technically Tony brought it up first.”

“Why did Tony bring it up?”

“Licensing purposes,” Steve said, superhuman eyes still wasted being glued to a tiny screen meant for viewing schematics and not video games. “They wanted to license my image.”

“And I told him he should at least give the game a fair shot,” Clint said. “Everyone else used his image when he was still legally dead, so it’s not like his face isn’t out there. Apparently it’s pretty hard to get _out_ of the public domain.”

“I don’t see Steve commenting on this.”

“That’s because I need to find another medkit or I’m going to die,” Steve answered. Without looking, he could see Natasha’s glare. “Okay, let me complete this mission so it saves. I don’t want to do this run again.”

The _actual_ mission was straightforward. A ship carrying a cargo of missing Hydra weapons (formerly Shield weapons) was hijacked by some very unlucky Somali pirates who didn’t know what they had and therefore weren’t acting on it quickly enough to get themselves killed yet. International authorities were hours away and would negotiate, something that in ordinary circumstances could take weeks or months. The pirates probably thought it would, that the hostages were more important than the cargo on the open market. It was a big ship but a small crew. They literally would not know what hit them.

“If they get to the weapons – “

“Chances are they haven’t opened the crates, and even if they have, they won’t be able to use them. There’s a learning curve with this level of tech,” Natasha explained. “But we’re not risking it. We’ll go in and do this fast as if they aren’t malnourished former farmers who probably don’t have ammo for their guns.”

Steve nodded as he put his helmet on. “I’ll take out the hostiles. Clint, get to the highest point you can find and stay on my six. Natasha, hostages. They get secured before the weapons do.” He waited only a moment for her nod before jumping out the back of the plane, sans-parachute, because of course he did.     

The mission was going smoothly. Clint found a nest high in the tower where he picked off the pirates who dared to head onto the deck after being drawn out by Steve. He was using tranqs, and the pirates were fast, but not fast enough, especially because the light from the helicopter circling above blinded them. Natasha went right inside and it took only five more minutes to clear the decks. Steve gave Clint the signal to keep a lookout and headed in to follow the sounds of nervous gunfire coming from inside.

The interior was massive. Steve leapt down several levels of metal hallway before he found the main cargo hold. Most of the containers had the appearance of containing ordinary shipping materials. Only one, in the center, was blatantly out-of-place in color and lack of rust. The pirates must have gone for it first, realizing whatever was inside must be more important, and therefore more expensive. The locks were cut off. The only thing holding it closed was a crowbar shoved into the handles.

Steve tapped the side of his ear, out of habit mostly. “Natasha?”

“The dossier said the crew was French, right?” She didn’t sound so sure of herself. “Because these guys are – “ Her voice broke off into static.

“Natasha?” Clint said over the comm. “I’m coming down there.”

“ – under control –,” she seemed to say, though it wasn’t clear that was true.

Steve would have rushed to her side, but a loud noise from the container – from _inside_ the container – distracted him. Someone was banging on the door. “Hello?” He put a careful hand on the doorway. “Are you injured?”

Another bang. Whoever or whatever it was, it was practically hurling itself against the door.

Steve readied his shield. “Bruce, that better not be you,” he said in an undertone. Of course this kind of container wouldn’t hold the Hulk. “Okay, buddy. Don’t worry, I’m friendly.” He waited for a moment of stillness, when whoever was inside seemed to be listening to him, and tore the crowbar out of the latch. “Okay, I need you to – “

The force of both doors opening struck the shield, causing the whole container to vibrate as it swung back, but the thing inside was already out in that time, hurling itself – himself, but Steve wasn’t supposed to make assumptions about gender, right? – at Steve. Before he could focus on anything clearly Steve was struck by the full weight of a man on his upper chest and shoulders, above the shield, with such force that he hit the ground. His own instincts weren’t far behind, and he kneed the attacker so hard he went up into the air and was knocked back against the container doors. He landed on his feet. Steve only had a second to glance at him before his attacker grabbed the handle of the shipping container and hurled himself up and on top of it, then ran behind, disappearing into the hold.

“Steve?” It was Natasha. He realized he hadn’t be answering the comm. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’ve just – got a hostile. Not a pirate. He’s on the run.”

“Armed? Because that crew? They were. With Hydra gear.”

“You’re okay?”

“They’re taking a nap now,” Clint put in. “Another two at the bow. What about your guy?”

“Um, no gun. You see a guy in black, tell me.” He picked up his shield. “Hello?” His voice reverberated off the metal walls. Movement at three o’clock – noise behind the containers. He sent his shield out, and he saw a black dash of a person next to where the shield hit the wall, then bounced back to Steve’s arm brace. “Not real chatty,” he said into the comm. A few seconds later the guy was visible again, leaping from one container to another. He was wearing all black and a khaffiah and goggles obscured most of his head and face. “I’ve got him.” He took a deep breath and hurled the shield out not to where his attacker was, but where he was going.

His attacker ducked, then paused on the rafter, waiting for the shield to bounce back. On the return he kicked it, changing its trajectory. Fascinated, and a little puzzled, Steve watched the shield strike the opposite wall, nowhere near either of them, then to the box back behind him, then –

“Steve?”

It was Nat’s voice, getting a little more insistent. It still came in distantly, as if she was speaking a continent away, but it was enough to wake him. It was that or getting pummeled in the face by someone wearing heavy gloves with metal bits over the knuckles. His attacker, who had just been so far away, was straddling him, landing one unrelenting blow after another. He was smaller than Steve, and his body armor couldn’t have been very heavy, because Steve could lift him off with one arm and toss him over the side, buying him precious seconds to get to his own feet. He was a little dizzy doing it. That was because – wait, where was his shield?

And that was the first thing the attacker went for – the shield. They both dove for it, but the guy in black was faster, and he rolled out of range to be grabbed, and every punch Steve could throw in his direction could be blocked by the shield or ducked away from. This guy was small but fast, and Steve found that hitting vibranium was as unpleasant an experience as it sounded like it would be.

“Guys?” he said, hoping the comm was on. “Little help?”

“Got your six,” Barton said, and Steve could almost hear it in person. Steve grabbed his attacker and shoved him around, so he was between him and Clint, who fired an arrow –

Which the new guy caught with one hand, and shoved into Steve’s neck right above where his armor ended like a knife. Before Steve had time to react, his opponent bashed his head with the shield again, then hurled and ran, presumably to hide from the arriving hail of arrows.

“ _Shit! Did you see that?_ ”

“Clint,” Steve said, his voice a little shaky. “Lang –

“I know, I know. Look, you just got tranqed. Sorry about that,” Clint said. “That you’re not already out is a good sign. Stay where you are. I’m going to keep this guy on the run.”

There were plenty of times Steve was annoyed with his super-fast metabolism, and the work he had to do to keep up with it. This was not one of those times.

“Where’s – “

Natasha answered his question with the sound of hissing electronics. The man in black bolted out of his hiding place and crashed on the ground, still lit by her taser. She emerged from behind him, the wires still connecting her device to bits stuck to his armor. Usually men screamed – more like shrieked – when hit by that kind of wattage, but he just gasped and made another attempt to get to his feet. He might have made it, too, if Natasha hadn’t been ready and waiting with another jolt. “If you know what’s good for you,” she said to him, putting a boot on his shoulder, “you’ll stay down this time.”

Clint found the ladder and joined them, first to pull the arrow out of Steve and then to put shorter dart in their new foe, whose head dropped to the floor with a noiseless moan on his lips. And Steve, being the nice guy he was, did not put a few kicks in for good measure. He flipped back into battle mode as quickly as possible. “The ship?”

“Secure,” Nat said. She already had her handheld out. “I’m calling in the search team for clean-up, but everyone’s out or just took a dunk in the ocean.”

“The crew?”

“Japanese with Hydra weapons. Little ones – they weren’t overly trained. Tattoos indicate Yakuza, but we haven’t had time to chat.”

“Japanese mafia,” Clint clarified for Steve before he could ask. He hated when they did that.

“What the hell is the Japanese mob doing off the coast of Africa?”

“Yeah, that is a really good question. One I’d really like answered.”

“It’s called a trap, Clint. This shouldn’t be a new thing for you,” Natasha said, sounding appropriately bored with him, or just consumed with her enhanced smartphone. “And we walked right into it.”  

“Maybe not our finest moment,” Steve admitted. He was still having some trouble balancing, but tried not to show it. “This was Hydra?”

“Doubt it,” Nat said with authority. “The Japanese had old weapons, matching the description of a lot sold off to an unknown bidder in Thailand six weeks ago. And I bet those are the only ones we’ll find on the ship. They weren’t trained with them, and Hydra wouldn’t send goons with such minor artillery to kill Captain America. I’m guessing when they wake up they won’t be able to give us any useful information about who hired them to run this ship, and neither will the pirates, who were probably tipped off by the same person.”

“This guy.” Clint couldn’t resist nudging the unconscious attacker with his boot.

“Probably trying to collect on that bounty. Steve’s head is worth four million. Whole body, six.”

“Wait, there’s a price on my head?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re the embodiment of righteousness and American foreign policy. Of course people want you dead.”

“And you didn’t tell me because ...?”

“I didn’t think it was news. There’s a price on all of our heads. Yours is just the second highest, after Tony’s.”

Cliff huffed. “I’m not going to even ask where I’m ranked on that list.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Bruce is lower.” Above them were the sounds of approaching helicopters. “Looks like our ride is here. Steve?” She gestured to the body on the floor. “I think we should take him back ourselves. I have some serious research to do.”

“Nat, he tried to kill me.”

She stepped forward and touched Steve on the neck. When she drew her forefinger back, there was blood on it. “And he almost succeeded.”


	3. Missing Person

“Okay, buddy,” Clint said with no particular affection in his voice. “You’re a lucky guy. Get to sleep through the whole flight.” He attached the two wireless electrodes to both of the unconscious man’s temples. Like all of Stark’s technology, they needlessly glowed blue, and if it worked, it would keep him under without side effects until they were removed.

“So this is the Hound,” Natasha said, barely looking up from her touchscreen. Once they were back in the jet, she paused in her research only long enough to use the med bay to scan Steve’s head and diagnose a concussion, but no internal bleeding. Now she looked over their prisoner, laid flat on the padded table. They had only checked him for weapons (he had six knives, all very small, and nothing else) and removed the goggles over his head to reveal frazzled, grimy hair, matted by sweat and dried blood.

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Steve wasn’t taking anything for granted. And he was pretty annoyed that the Tylenol didn’t seem to be working.

“He’s new,” she said, opening more windows on her screen and filling the area in front of her with holographs. “But in a couple months he’s racked up a body count. Assassin for hire, no known affiliations, but he’s been seen with a couple people from the Hand.” She paused. “That’s a ninja group. They stay mostly in their own territory, but they’re buying up property in the States and mainland China. They were running around New York about two years ago. Probably selling drugs.” She could go through whole pages of material faster than Steve could read the headlines, but this probably wasn’t new information to her.

“Why’s he called the Hound?”

Her very definitive answer was, “You don’t want to know.”

“He’s not Japanese.”

“Maybe the Hand are equal-opportunity employers.” Nat finally put aside her screen and moved closer to the sleeping Hound. She pulled back the scarf that covered his mouth. He had a considerable, ill-kept beard that was brown with red highlights. “Wait. I think I know this guy.”

“Let’s just say I’m not overly surprised,” said Clint, who had already moved on to playing a noisy game on his phone that made a lot of casino-type sounds.

“No. No, not like that.” She removed one of his gloves, which involved undoing a lot of Velcro and leather straps, and placed the touch pad under his hand. It took only seconds to get a hit. The screen was set on silent, so she held up the image for them to see. It was a Missing Person flier. “You remember these?”

“Oh yeah. They were up all over lower Manhattan for months,” Clint said. “Missing blind guy. Suspected abduction. Kids on the subway were always drawing shit on the fliers over his eyes.” In the flier photo, which was probably pulled from a state-issued ID, his eyes were open but clearly unfocused.

Natasha grabbed a pen light from the tray and opened the Hound’s eyes. “No light response. This is our guy. Matthew ...” She checked the file again. “Murdock. Lawyer from Hell’s Kitchen. Missing for over a year.”

Steve gave the light a try for himself because hey, it was a little unbelievable. The brown irises did not dart around as they should have. They were frozen in place. “How many blind assassins can there be?”

“Until today I only knew of one,” Natasha said in a manner that conveyed exactly how little she was joking, “who was spotted in New York about two years ago.” Steve could almost see her connecting dots he didn’t even begin to know about in her head. “Okay, it’s complicated, but let’s just say that I don’t think the fingerprint match is wrong. This is Matthew Murdock, he has associates who are blind assassins, but he has no history of ... this.” She made a grand gesture to the person on the table between them. “Actually he’s a well-educated, highly-skilled defense attorney. Doesn’t really fit the pattern.”

“We fit patterns now?”

“Take it easy, soldier boy,” she said, but her interest was on the Hound – Matt’s – arm. She rolled up the sleeve, revealing pale skin and lots of track marks. “Let’s get his armor off.”

The chest and shoulder gear was without logo or embellishments, but it was clearly expensive and sophisticated, and light enough not to weigh him down. Beneath it he was just in a dirty, sweat-soaked black shirt. He was built, but not like a bodybuilder, and he was still down a few pounds. Everything looked worked, hardened by callouses and scars. “Steve, where did you find him?”

“He was in a shipping container. Locked from the outside.” He swallowed. “Someone put him in there.”

“Probably the same person who did _this_ to him.” She pulled up his sleeve to expose the scarring from multiple puncture wounds on his arm near the shoulder. “He has a handler. Or probably _handlers_.”

“That means they’ll come looking for him,” Clint suggested. “And they’ll probably have a way of finding him.”

Fortunately for them, the tracking device wasn’t in his bloodstream. It was in an attachment to the metal collar around his neck hidden by the scarf.

There was silence in the hangar.

“We need tools,” Clint managed to say, because they did. There was heavy-duty gear in the cargo hold, meant for cutting Tony out of his armor or breaking into a secure facility. It took some time to root around for the right equipment to saw off a steel collar welded shut without killing the person with the same tool. Steve and Natasha kept the fire blanket around Matt’s head while Clint sawed the metal in two places with a laser cutter. Beneath it, his skin was much paler, almost an entirely different color.

Nat opened the bay door and tossed the collar in the Atlantic. Either his handlers would think he was dead or know it had been ditched.

“We take him back to the Tower,” Steve suggested.

“It’s not secure,” Natasha said. “I know _Tony_ thinks it is, but SHIELD has their eyes on him and he has his eyes on SHIELD. This can’t end up on Wikileaks with the rest of us.”

Steve pointed out the obvious. “He needs medical attention. And that’s presuming he wakes up feeling friendly.”

Natasha just said, “I might know a guy.”

*******************************

It was day when they arrived in New York, not far from the outskirts of the city, where Bruce was waiting with a non-descript car parked on the road at the edge of the field. Knowing Banner, it was probably electric, but lacked any of the traditional Stark flash.

“You smell like patchouli,” Natasha said as they joined him on the ground, with Steve carrying Murdock, who was actually pretty light without his gear.

“The whole studio smells like it,” said Bruce, who was wearing a linen yoga shirt and a set of wooden prayer beads around his neck. “It’s better than the incense they were using. I always came out of there sneezing.” He looked over her shoulder. “This is the patient?”

“Yeah, and if he wakes up, you might want to clear the room,” Clint said. “No offense.”

“Thanks for the warning. I would prefer not to destroy another safe house.” Bruce jingled the keys. “Let’s go.”

The house was a few miles down with pavement so worn down by time and weather it barely counted as a road anymore. There was barn-like structure hidden between nature gone wild and un-sculpted, and it looked abandoned. The only thing notable was the half-covered yellow and black fallout shelter sign.

“This was an emergency shelter for the mayor of Long Island, if you can believe that,” Bruce explained as he led them down a creaky set of wooden steps. “Abandoned in the seventies. The park service actually owns the land.” There was a door at the bottom that looked more like an end point, but Bruce unlocked it and stepped through it, turning on the lights as he went to reveal a fully-functional laboratory. “This place was designed offsite. It was a prototype for what they built on the helicarrier.” To his right was a square room encased in specialized glass ten inches thick, with a door made of the same glass. “When we upgraded I kept the parts and Fury helped me build this off the grid. I haven’t been here since. The Wifi’s pretty terrible.” He fired up the control panel next to the surgical table. “It never got any use. That’s why it’s still standing. But all the radioactive materials have been removed.” He didn’t need to say why he had radioactive materials in a private laboratory. There was a lot of suspiciously gruesome-looking medical implements on the wall. “Tony doesn’t know about it – or I don’t think he does. Why are we keeping this from him?”

It was easy to do; Stark was in Aruba with a bullshit excuse for being there. “Tony can’t keep a secret to save his favorite pet robot. The second he hears the word ‘ninja’ he’ll be all over this like he’s five.”

“Ninja? Like the throwing star guys?”

“Actually he just mainly threw my shield at me,” Steve said as he laid Matt down on the table. “Which was very unpleasant.”

“Steve might have a teeny-weeny concussion,” Natasha said. “And he may be a bit grumpy about it.”

Bruce looked at his patient with a newfound respect. “You can lay down if you want.” He indicated the glass room, which was padded on all sides except the one facing them. “You don’t have to stay awake. That’s an urban legend.”

“I’m fine.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as he fired up the scanner that went slowly down Matt’s body. It took him a long time to find a vein that wasn’t sunk and get a good amount of blood in the tubes. Steve was finally convinced to at least sit down while they waited for results. Aside from occasionally asking to be handed equipment, Bruce was silent as he worked, and as he read the scanner results. “He’s had serious injuries – cracked ribs, broken bones, head trauma – but they’re all healed. Bone bruising, too. And he’s got some mildly radioactive substance in his eyes, but it’s old.”

“He was blinded as a kid,” Natasha said. She’d been reading up on their subject on the way in. “Chemical spill in Hell’s Kitchen. Experimental paralytic toxin, never made it past initial testing.”

“He’s got the brain development of someone not receiving visual input. I actually would like to do a more comprehensive MRI – some of it’s interesting – but only with his consent.”

“Issue at hand,” Natasha said, politely but curtly.

Bruce stopped looking like he was playing with a new toy and cleared his throat. “Okay, um.” He looked at the rest of it. “So our friend here has a near-toxic level of methamphetamine compounds in his bloodstream. A highly sophisticated version of it, too. Not your home-cooked crystal meth.”

“That’s why he kept moving after I tased him. The pain alone should have stopped him.”

The scientist looked at Matt’s calm face. “I’m surprised he’s out now. But that’s not all. He’s got traces of benzodiazepine and phencyclidine. It looks like he’s been on a sleep-wake cycle where he’s either hyper-active or sedated.” After a pause, he looked over the audience and said, “He’s an addict, and from all of the scarring from injection sites, not one by choice. He’s got maybe ten, twelve hours before he starts to go into withdrawal. That’s my biggest medical concern right now.”

“Also he’s determined to kill me?” Steve politely reminded him.

“Look, by tomorrow, he won’t be strong enough or aware enough to kill anybody. But we can’t keep him under until then. He has enough in his system already.”

“What do we now?”

Bruce looked his patient over again. “A shower might help.”

*******************************

It was easier said than done. Steve and Clint stripped him down to his boxers and held him down under the spray of a stall meant mostly for cleaning off chemicals, and the water woke him. The tile was too slippery for him to immediately get to his feet, but he had enough instinct to hurl them both against the back wall. He got a few punches in – mostly on Clint, who was faster to recover this time – before Steve got him in a headlock and held him until he passed out.

The rest of it went pretty smoothly, considering Clint couldn’t open his right eye, Steve reopened his stitches, and their “patient” just tried to kill them with nothing but brute force and now they had to make sure he didn’t choke on the water.

“You should see the movie _Eastern Promises_ ,” Clint said. “You’ll relate to it now.”

Steve rolled his eyes. It looked like it hurt.

Bruce had a change of clothing because Bruce had to keep stashes of sweats around. They clothed Matt, disinfected and bandaged the new cuts on his knuckles, put him in a straightjacket (avoiding the awkward conversation about having one of those available), and managed to get him into the padded cell before he woke again. He looked considerably better by just being clean. His hair was several shades lighter and he looked more like his photograph.

“Did he say anything?” was all Natasha wanted to know.

“No,” Steve said as Bruce redid his stitches. “He didn’t even make a sound.”

“He has no reason to think we aren’t hostile,” Bruce pointed out, because he was a nice guy like that. By then, Matt had woken and was sitting cross-legged in the corner of the room, eyes staring forward blankly. “We _are_ holding him against his will.” He was impressed that Matt could get into a full-lotus position and hold it for so long. “It’s hard to do.”

“Great to know,” Clint said, holding an ice pack to his face. “Steve should go home.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not,” Natasha told him. “Go get some rest. If anyone asks, you’re behind on filing the report, and you’ll get to it.” Steve would normally put up a fight about being dishonest, but he just nodded. “I’ll drive. We need to pick someone up.”

“Who?”

“An expert on Matt Murdock.”


	4. Forms and Spreadsheets

Present Day

Foggy never left the city. Part of it had to do with not having a life, followed by not having a car. In fact he was almost never even riding in a front seat, so when he picked his head up, his weight supported by a seat belt, he wondered where he’d told the cab driver to go and why he couldn’t remember getting in in the first place.

“Don’t freak out,” said the driver. “You don’t want to get out of a moving vehicle. It’s not like the movies. Plus you have a hangover that will impede your ability to make a good landing.”

Her voice was stern but informative. Foggy was afraid to open his eyes before he pieced together what was going on, but he was greeted to mostly darkness ahead of them. The only things lighting the road were their headlights.

He still couldn’t remember what he was doing in the car with her. Or who she was. Or where they were. The questions were just piling up. But he wasn’t restrained, so why was he here? “Um – “

“Technically speaking, you’re not being kidnapped,” she said. “I could drop you off if you want. But Matthew Murdock is alive and I assume you want to see him, and that’s only happening if you listen to what I say.”

“I – “ His brain came to a full stop when he processed what she was saying. “ _Matt’s alive?_ ”

“Yes. We found him ten hours ago on a cargo ship sailing in the Arabian Sea. I can’t tell you everything that happened because it’s classified and unnecessary information.”

He choked on whatever his next words should have been and looked at the driver. Part of him was saying he _really_ should have recognized her already, but it was dark and he felt drugged, so maybe it was time to cut himself a break. Also, who cared? _Matt was alive_. “Is he okay?”

“No. But he’s not dying. He’ll probably make a full recovery, but it will be faster if he has someone he knows.” She was spitting out information with rapid precision, but her voice was not entirely without sympathy. “Mentally, he’s in shock. He’s been through serious trauma and he’s not going to be the person he was when he disappeared. You should be ready for that.”

Foggy didn’t know how to get ready for that, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. It cleared his head. “Can I ask – “ When it hit him, he sunk in his seat, feeling like an idiot. “You’re that Avenger!”

“ _That_ Avenger?”

“The, um – “ He tried to use his words. That would be good. Words. “You’re Black Widow.”

Fortunately she didn’t sound too annoyed. There was even warmth in her voice. “You can call me Natasha.”

“Um, okay.” Honestly, he didn’t know if this news made things better or worse. He needed to focus. Matt was alive. Matt was going to be okay. That was what was important. “My name’s Foggy. No one calls me Franklin.”

“Foggy.” She glanced at him. “Sorry about grabbing you on the street, but it was the most expedient way of doing things. Which you’ll appreciate in the long run.”

“Yeah.” He tapped on the car wall. “Yeah, if it gets to Matt, go faster.”

“We’re trying to piece together what happened to him,” she said. “I need you to answer some questions.”

“He was already blind.”

“The police report told us that. And you put up a lot on the internet. Which was a smart thing to do, by the way.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“I’m going to say some names to you. I need you to tell me if they mean anything.”

Foggy nodded. “Okay.”

“Hydra.”

“You mean, related to Matt? No. I only know what everyone else knows, from the news.”

“The Hand.”

“Is that a group or a person?”

She moved on. “The Chaste.”

“Who?”

“A group of highly-trained martial artist assassins.” She added, “Most of them are blind.”

“Then I should know the name, but I don’t. But Matt – he wasn’t in any group.”

“Fine,” she answered. “Stick.”

He sprung up in his seat. “That was the Yoda guy! The guy who taught Matt to fight when he was a kid – wait, should I be telling you this?”

“We know they’re connected. Daredevil helped Stick out with a mission when he was in New York. This would be two years ago.”

“But Matt isn’t –“ Again, he stopped himself. “Okay, I am really bad at keeping secrets.”

“I already knew.” G-d, what confidence. She was like a robot. A robot who could punch Marci into the ground with her confidence. “The Chaste to Stick to Daredevil. There’s only so many blind ninjas running around. And the general Daredevil timeline matches perfectly with you opening your practice until his disappearance,” she said. “Don’t feel dumb. I do this for a living.”

“You were – you were a Russian spy, I think?”

“Used to be.” It was the wrong road to go down. “It’s also how I know to keep things secret. Which is why we didn’t turn him over to SHIELD, or anyone else.”

“Yeah, I kind of read about it. A lot.” He did wait for the news to sort through all the SHIELD documents first, because most of the information was massively confusing. He didn’t want to ask about it and he didn’t have to because the car came to a stop in front of a building that had to be abandoned.

Black Widow – Natasha – faced him and put her hands on his shoulders. “I want you to understand something. He’s in an incredibly agitated state. He’s a danger to himself and others. Everything we’re doing for him is a medical necessity, but it’s not going to look good. You’re not going to like the way he looks and chances are he’s not going to recognize you. When that happens, I need you not to freak out. That’s not helpful to anyone. Do you think you can do that?”

It took him a moment to realize she was really asking him a question. “Yeah.” He steadied himself. “Yes, I can do this.”

She didn’t call him on what was a pretty blatant lie, and he was grateful for that.

The next few minutes were a blur. Fancy computer terminals, blue-lit panels, scary medical equipment, and all he could think was _Matt, Matt, Matt, oh my G-d it’s you, please let me know you’re okay, thank you so much for being alive, I’m sorry I cleaned out your office, I’m sorry I used it for storage, I’m sorry I thought I couldn’t wait for this_ -

Across from him, separated by glass inches deep, Matt stared back at him, his eyes still, his face completely expressionless. Finally, Foggy noticed the red splotches below the beard, staining the straightjacket. “Why is there blood on hi – “

“It’s not his,” someone said to his left, and he really didn’t care to look from where he was, kneeling on the floor so he could be eye-level with Matt, but he eventually did. A skinny guy in black was holding a towel to his nose. “Don’t think about going in there. It’s not worth it.” To someone else, probably Natasha, he said, “The doc says it’s not broken.”

“Did you just want to destroy your face tonight?”

“Dehydration is an issue,” said another, far more soft-spoken person. From Foggy’s periphery he could see he was wearing a lab coat. “And we can’t put an IV in, so we tried to give him water.”

“ _I_ did,” the man in black corrected.

“Well, if he’d head-butted me the night would have gone differently,” the ‘doctor’ said. “Mr. Nelson.”

“Yeah.” Foggy realized it would be polite to look at the guy, maybe even shake his hands. “Call me Foggy.”

“I’m Dr. Banner,” the man explained. He didn’t seem to fit with the two highly-skilled, super-buff people in the room. “I have a few medical questions I need you to answer.”

He wasn’t willing to leave Matt, not now, maybe not ever, but they brought him a folding chair so he could at least sit down. He was already exhausted. “I’m his medical power of attorney, by the way. He doesn’t have any family so we filled out the paperwork when we went into business together.”

Dr. Banner nodded. “Since he can’t make his wishes known at the moment, that’s good to know.” He even had a clipboard with a chart. “Does he have any medical allergies?”

“No.”

“Medical history I should know about? Besides all of the scars and healed breaks and bruising. And NLR blindness.”

“Uh, no, that probably covers a lot of it.”

“Psychiatric history?”

“Oh, well, he would just say he’s Catholic, as if that explains everything.” He actually felt a smile inside, even if it was far from the surface. There was a weight off him now, and he realized that weight was _missing Matt_ , though quickly being replaced by _injured Matt_. “He was blinded when he was a kid, held his dad when he died, his karate teacher beat the shit out of him, teenage years in an orphanage so ... anger issues. Depression.”

“Was he ever on medication for it?”

“No, he totally refused to take anything.” It was a whole thing in college, and the source of a few fights before Foggy backed off. “And he wouldn’t consent to anything now.”

“Herbal supplements? Vitamins?”

“Nothing. He did have a pretty healthy diet.” He looked guiltily at Matt. “Sorry buddy, we’re talking about you.”

“The room is soundproofed,” the doctor said.

“Yeah, I’m willing to bet my license to practice law that he can hear us just fine.”

The doctor made a note. “Does he have any special powers I should know about?”

Foggy couldn’t help but scoff at the question. “There’s a little box in there to check off superpowers?”

“There’s a space to write them in, yes.” Of course this guy was being completely serious.

“He just, um, uses his other senses differently. They were heightened after the accident. He doesn’t have a clear picture. He can’t see light or colors and he can’t always recognize people or tell them apart. But he gets an idea of the room around him from sound waves. There’s a fancy word for it.”

“Echolocation,” the doctor said. “Bats use it to see.”

“They also see normally. Just not very well.” Foggy added, “Sorry, he’s got a thing about bats. People are always wrong about them.” His eyes strayed back to Matt, who hadn’t moved so much as a millimeter since Foggy’s arrival. Was he meditating? Didn’t he need his eyes closed for that? Maybe he didn’t. “Was he like this when you found him?”

“Mute and unresponsive to human interaction? Yes. But that was after ...” the doctor trailed off, and looked to the others for help.

Natasha put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Someone gave your friend a lot of drugs. He was attacking everyone in sight. And he was good at it.”

“Still is,” said the guy with the bloody nose. Foggy didn’t recognize him, so he was probably the archer guy. Bow and Arrow? Green Arrow? “Your buddy took down Captain America. Twice. When he’s better, tell him that. Unless it will go to his head.”

Foggy managed a smile. “Thanks.” He supposed in another life he would be thinking about how cool it would be to even know someone who knew Captain America, but at the moment he could only look at Matt and remind himself not to freak out. He promised he wouldn’t. It would be bad for Matt. Foggy could hold himself together for this. “I want to talk to him.”

“You just said he can hear you.”

“No, I mean – “ He sighed. “I trust him.”

“Trust is not the issue right now.”

“You said he needs to drink, right? He probably needs to eat? How long have you had him here?” Foggy stood up. “You can’t starve him out. You brought me here. Let me help him.”

He was one hundred percent sure he couldn’t successfully sue this people even if he did get hurt, and being treated by them would be better than any hospital. Hell, he might even end up in Stark Tower with a dozen offers to turn him into a flying cyborg. He would take his chances.

Matt wouldn’t hurt him.

They gave him a plastic plate filled with a microwaved dish of pasta and beef and a spoon. No fork. As if Matt could take him out with that. They did not offer to go in with him. Mr. Arrow, or whatever his name was, was sulking and having his nose re-bandaged.

“The intercom will be on,” Natasha told him.

Foggy was getting impatient. He stepped in the padded room, sans shoes, but he did get a bit of a jolt from the sound of the door locking behind him. He tried to put a smile on his face. “Hey, Matt.” He wasn’t lying when he said, “It’s good to see you.”

Matt didn’t move, didn’t even turn his head. It was already slightly cocked to the right, almost imperceptibly, which meant he was alert, in that he was reading the room. Foggy figured there was nothing Matt could pick up about his surroundings that he already hadn’t. “Okay, so I changed my shampoo.” The bottle was purple, like lilacs. After years of unscented shampoos and soap and lotion, he had finally given in. “There was a sale. And the old stuff was shit. You know that.”

He seated himself across from Matt. Matt’s eyes weren’t darting around as they sometimes did, which could mean he was calm and focused, or could mean nothing. Matt hated being around strangers without his glasses, but things with sharp edges were definitely out of the question. “Are you hungry?” He waved the plate in front of Matt. “Come on. You just flew in from halfway across the world. You have to be starving.” He scooped up some pasta encrusted with rehydrated beef with the spoon and put it in his mouth. “It’s not bad. I mean, it’s full of preservatives and carbs, and you’re going to think it has too much salt, but you need it. It’s definitely better than me eating it and I’m _starving_.” It wasn’t far from the truth; he hadn’t had dinner. He took another spoonful and held it up to Matt’s face. _No physical contact_ was a pretty strict rule the Avengers had laid down for him. “I can do this all day. I’ve got a niece who just moved to solid food and she’s way more stubborn than you.” He waved the spoon in front of Matt’s hairy face. “I can hear your stomach growling.”

It was a bluff, but it worked. Matt took a tentative bite, his first movement since Foggy entered, and then finished off the whole plate as fast as Foggy could feed it to him, and drank two bottles of water. The salt and chemical aftertaste probably helped. Matt licked his lips and sunk back into his intense meditative posture, coiled to strike.

Foggy didn’t know what to say. It was hard to talk to a wall, but he didn’t want to leave. He was afraid this was a dream, and if he stepped out, he would wake up. “How have you been?” He waited, but he did not expect nor receive a response. He didn’t patronize him by asking where he’d been. The answer to that, even if Matt was willing to give it, couldn’t be anything but painful, and Matt was a secretive guy when he was _not_ locked up in a rubber room. “Things have been okay.” He sighed. “I’m not going to pretend that’s true, but it felt like the right thing to say. I went back to school, because I feel like being even deeper in debt.” That wasn’t true either. “I like it, actually. There’s a lot of unearned respect for grad students with their own practice. Like I’m some kind of adult.” He added, “I have a beard now. But you probably already knew that.” He looked right into Matt’s eyes when he spoke. He was never put off by them. He knew it was a gesture of intimacy, that Matt was comfortable because Foggy either wouldn’t look at him like Matt was a zoo animal or he wouldn’t care, and he could just be Matt, with the unnerving eyes. But now, there was an unusual blankness to them, like nothing was going on behind them. Foggy knew there was activity – he’d just watched Matt eat – but some light inside Matt that should have been on was off.

Foggy wondered how anyone could hurt someone so precious. He wondered who broke his best friend.

Before they could come in and stop him, because Natasha’s voice could even register through the intercom, Foggy leaned forward and pulled Matt into his arms, resting his chin on Matt’s shoulder. His best friend in the world didn’t react to his touch. He didn’t flinch, or attempt to reciprocate within his limited means, or even make a sound of surprise. But he didn’t go the other way, squirming or pulling back or fighting him. Whatever ferocity he had to headbutt an Avenger – even if it was the archer guy – until he bled was completely absent. Matt didn’t embrace, but he didn’t push away.

It was good enough for Foggy. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” All of his willpower not to cry was gone. His chin felt rough against the straightjacket and he wanted to bury himself in it. “I tried to find you. I did everything I could. I tried everything – but it wasn’t enough. I know it wasn’t. And I will never stop being sorry about that.” His hand crushed against the back of Matt’s head. His hair was longer than Matt usually kept it, but still soft. “Just please come back to me.”

There was a long silence, punctuated only by Foggy’s occasional, embarrassing sobs. He wondered he should get himself together and leave this poor man alone. He wondered if the Avengers were laughing at him, then he realized he didn’t give a shit what they thought of him, or of Matt, whom they would never truly understand.

And then Matt’s neck slackened, and he leaned his head on Foggy’s shoulder.


	5. Withdrawal

“You have to go home. You have to rest.”

It was an order. Foggy understood that. He was tired. He couldn’t remember not being tired, not since Matt went missing, and it wasn’t much better now. So he carefully weighed the doctor’s words but only responded with a wordless nod.

“He’s going to start crashing soon,” the doctor said patiently. “We can’t gauge the level of his addiction, but this is not going to be an easy ride for him. If you want to help, you need to be rested. And you should probably make some excuses for the next few days so people don’t get suspicious.”

Foggy looked over his shoulder at Matt, who was sleeping on a slim mattress in the corner of his cell. “Can I tell anyone? I’m not the only one who wants to know.”

“You can’t be seen doing anything suspicious,” Natasha explained. “Including looking up Matt’s contacts out of the blue. And you have to assume all of your phone and internet activity is monitored, especially with people looking for him.”

“The people who – “

“We’re going to find them.” It sounded vaguely like a promise. “But it might take time. Until then, this has to stay under the radar.”

Again, Foggy nodded obediently. He knew when he was in over his head. All the time, it seemed like. “What can I do?”

“You know him best. He needs things that are familiar to him. Music. Food. Clothing.”

“Yeah, I can get all that stuff.” This he could do. There was some pride in that. “I can put off things for a couple of days.” Actually if the doctor had asked it of him he would have dropped everything, right here and right now, including his current caseload and his semester’s worth of classes.

Foggy was anxious leaving Matt again, even just for a ride back to the city. It brought with it the familiar pangs of loss and a brief, unnecessary panic that Matt would disappear again. He couldn’t go through that twice. Matt would just _have to_ be there when he got back.

Clint, which was the name of the archer – Hawkeye, Foggy now remembered – drove him back. “You’re a good friend, you know that?”

“Thanks.” Foggy looked out the side window, focusing on nothing. “You’ve found other people like this?”

“Brainwashing does seem to be going around,” Clint said. He seemed like a gruff guy, so he probably meant what he said. He didn’t scream charisma. “Yeah, I’ve seen some bad stuff. I’ve _done_ some bad stuff. But people come back. It just takes time.” Maybe he sensed that Foggy was freaking out over all this, because when Clint talked, he was dragging words out of himself. “I talked Tony out of a panic attack once. When he was in the suit. Otherwise I would have ignored it. He’s a bit of a drama queen.”

Foggy grinned. “Yeah, I figured that out.”

He got home and tried to sleep. He really put his best into it. He was so exhausted from worry, yet so unable to find peace. He couldn’t pick up the phone and call Brett. He couldn’t open up his laptop and Skype with Karen. He couldn’t even tell the priest. He couldn’t relieve himself of the unbearable burden of secret. He couldn’t laugh with joy and cry at the same time, because Matt was alive but Matt was a mess.

He must have passed out eventually, because it was night again (and a full ten hours later) when he woke. He did some shopping and called Natasha on the high-tech burner she gave him (which ... weird, he now had Black Widow’s number, he felt like he was breaking some law). He’d barely managed to eat anything but he felt sick on the way out, but she didn’t feel the apparent need to gas him in this time. Also not on her list of priorities: small talk.

Matt looked considerably different. The only thing the same was his frustrating silence as he swayed back and forth on the edge of the mattress, covered in sweat.

“Hi, Matt,” Foggy said as he entered fearlessly. “This is probably a shitty question, but how are you feeling?”

Matt did nothing to acknowledge his presence, but his eyes were darting around the room, instinctively trying to find something to focus on. They would never succeed but it gave away something about his mental state. Foggy felt guilty for thinking Matt seemed more alive this time around, even if he was trying to jump out of his own skin.

“I got your sheets,” he said. “You owe me, by the way. These things are not cheap. And do you know what cashmere socks cost?” He took a set of wireless speakers out of the bag and set them on the ground against the wall. They were tied up in bubble wrap. “Please don’t smash these. I will take it as an insult.” He had realized belatedly that Matt probably wasn’t up to reading, being in a straightjacket and all. “When you’re feeling less punchy and kicky, I brought your Marshall so you can go back to memorizing his dissenting opinions, because you’re going to need those to annoy me in the future.” He smiled, and wondered if Matt could sense it. Or sense much of anything outside his body at the moment. “Good to see you too, buddy.”

Outside the cell, he put on some soft music with the remote control and went about cutting the tags and labels out of the new clothing. “His skin is very sensitive,” he explained to the doctor. “And he hates chemical smells.” He had with him unscented shampoo that took forever to actually clean hair. “If you want to disorient him, just bleach your hair. Not that you would want to.”

The doctor looked curious at the level of detail Foggy could go into about what made Matt uncomfortable. When asked if he was a little familiar with hypersensitivity, he squirmed and said, “More in recent years.”

“How did you end up working for the Avengers? I mean, can I ask? Or is it super secret?”

“Oh, I’m just helping out.”

“Bruce, you’re not going to win a prize for lowest self-esteem,” said Natasha, who was reading something at the computer terminal. “Don’t let him fool you. He _is_ an Avenger.”

Foggy gave the doctor a second look and Banner shuffled his feet, hoping Foggy would fill the silence. He should know this, he should know this –

Finally the doctor said, “I’m also the big guy. Sometimes.”

“The Hulk?” Foggy squinted, but that didn’t help him see it. “Oh my G-d! My nephew loves you! He dressed up as you for Halloween _and_ his birthday!” He grabbed Banner’s hand and shook it. “Wait. Is green face offensive?”

“Um, no. I don’t think so.” He shook and then pulled away, and Foggy realized maybe he shouldn’t be touching the big green man known for punching buildings to pieces without his permission. “I am a real practicing physician. I prefer this, actually. Over the, um, other stuff.” He smiled nervously. “I mean, not specifically – “ He gestured with his clipboard to Matt. “Just helping people. Medically.”

“You also build crazy machines with Stark,” Natasha said. Like Marci, her voice could be flat and charming at the same time.

“I do that sometimes,” Dr. Banner conceded.

They waited for Captain America to show up – because holy shit, Captain America! – and Foggy embarrassed himself all over again, ignoring that this guy was not in costume, had a bandage on the back of his head, and was hardly as shy as the Hulk. “Matt’s a huge fun, too!” Foggy was ready to squeal. He had to hold himself back. “We listened to the radio plays together in law school after someone remastered them and put them up as .mp3s. From the forties? I mean, the later forties I guess?” Steve Rogers looked patiently bemused, like he had heard this story a thousand times before but was too much a gentleman to do anything about it. “And he read the reissued comics when he was a kid! So he actually knows what you look like! And he doesn’t even know what _I_ look like.”

“You know those radio plays weren’t exactly documentaries, right?”

“You weren’t always saving a sexy nurse from Red Skull?”

“ _Agent Carter_ ,” he said with a little more force in his voice, “was my colleague and a fellow soldier. I’m honored to have fought alongside her.”

“Oh – _Oh_. Sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re a war hero. She was a war hero.” Foggy took a breath. “I’ll stop now.”

“It’s nice to meet someone so enthusiastic.” Steve touched him on the shoulder. He had huge hands. “Let’s go help your friend.”

Foggy contained his excitement of being helped by Captain America, who was far more hesitant to enter the room than he was. Matt was weaker than yesterday, but still rather openly feral when they tried to touch him, at least to Steve. “Come on, buddy,” Foggy said as he unsnapped the jacket. “You smell. We all know it. And you need to drink.” He tried not to think of Matt as a caged animal, despite the uncomfortable resemblance as he tried to sink into the corner and resisted all efforts to change his clothes. He refused to eat, but when Steve stepped away Foggy managed to at least wipe the sweat off his face. Matt was trembling, and Matt Murdock did not tremble. Foggy didn’t like the feeling against his palms. “I’m not leaving until you drink something.” Eventually he got Matt to drink two servings of apple juice, that shitty ultra-natural brand Matt liked and was hard to find. He picked up the straightjacket. “Matt,” he whispered, “I need you to chill out. No one’s going to hurt you, okay? Because I can’t stand to have them put you back in this.”

G-d, he wished Matt would say something. He wished Matt would even make a sound.

Sometimes he was asking for too much. Matt leaned against the wall, not quite sure what to do with his freed arms, and closed his eyes. His hands were shaking, and he was opening and closing his firsts with so much force that he was cutting little half-circles into his palm, but he didn’t have the nails to draw blood.

_Oh Matt_ , Foggy sighed. _What’s going on in that head of yours?_

*******************************

_Itchy itchy itchy can’t scratch itchy not hard enough itchy hurts hurts hurts don’t sit still don’t breathe - don’t let it inside - don’t let it outside so itchy_

_Tear off skin? Itchy under skin need to tear off skin can’t tear of skin bleed too much still so itchy make it stop ow ow make it stop deep breath_

_Need to move need to go – home? Safe – itchy itchy itchy skin is on fire need to stand_

_No bad idea need to sit, need to stand again, itchy itchy_

_Flower smell lilacs don’t hit so itchy - can’t scratch - person talking not listening not relevant don’t listen to persons talking just wait - kill funny steel smell, can hear vibrations - too weak, can’t concentrate_

_Focus? Can’t focus itchy ow ow ow so tired too itchy can’t focus can’t sleep_

*******************************

Dr. Banner called it on the third day. Matt hadn’t slept and he’d hurled himself against the glass twice, not to escape but to dislocate his shoulder, probably to find a different, more distracting source of pain to focus on. After Steve popped the arm back into its socket a second time, Banner said, “We have to sedate him.”

“He wouldn’t agree to it,” Foggy said.

“He can’t go through all of these withdrawals at once. He’s not sleeping, he’s sweating himself to the point of dehydration, and he has hand tremors. He’s a stroke risk.”

The doctor was insistent, but Foggy didn’t need to hear anymore. It tore him apart to help round up the very jumpy Matt and restrain him on a gurney, but when they had an IV going he stopped fighting them (or being able to fight them) and his breathing slowed into a semi-restful pattern for sleep.

“The Tower would be better,” Banner admitted. “We would have more staff.” At this point they were basically taking shifts. “But it is a risk.”

“There’s already a two-way information war there,” Natasha insisted. “And a lot of people coming and going. If Matt’s going to come back from this, he can’t have files for people to track.”

Foggy swallowed when she said _if_.

*******************************

Matt did better, or at least appeared to be doing better, under sedation. Between his silence and the clonazepam, it was hard to tell how aware he really was even when his eyes were open. He got some of his color back after being feed intravenously, and he was no longer fighting them over the daily shower, but it was frightening to see him so listless after literally bouncing off the walls of the padded cell. They even felt comfortable trimming his hair and his beard so that he looked more like Matt, but Foggy couldn’t shake the idea that he was losing what little of his friend he still had.

By the end of the week, Matt was catatonic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter previews and other Daredevil things at:
> 
> www.tumblr.com/blog/devilofmidtownwest


	6. Confessional

Father Lantom had a number of internal responses to seeing Foggy Nelson again, but he hid all of them. He was only halfway through the afternoon’s adult catechism course when he spied the young man enter the sanctuary and sit down in one of the back pews. He did not barge in full of joy, which was good for Lantom’s students, but made the priest’s heart sink. Then again, it could mean a lot of things. Maybe the young man genuinely wanted help. He tried to remember when they had last spoken – before Easter last year? – but he redirected his attention to the material. Fortunately it was introductory content and he knew it cold. He anticipated all of the questions from his four students (two married to Catholics, one convert, and one immigrant who needed to practice her church English) and answered them without much thought. He wondered what penance he would get from the bishop for phoning in a class.

They didn’t linger, and he was grateful for that. Mr. Nelson was very patient in his waiting. He looked tired and a little scared, but the fact that he wasn’t openly weeping gave Lantom hope.

He interrupted before Lantom could properly get a word out. “We should – “ He gestured to the wooden stalls.

“Do you have something to confess?”

“Um, no, not ‘confess’ confess, but can we just go?” He was done with waiting.

Father Lantom draped his purple stole over his shoulders – it would look strange if he didn’t – and took his regular seat.

Foggy wasn’t Catholic and didn’t bother with the niceties. “Matt’s alive, but it’s not good.”

Lantom crossed himself, feeling like he could breathe again. “ _Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen_.”

“Amen,” Foggy said, to be polite.

“Where is he now?”

“He’s in uh ... well it’s hard to describe. A safe house? A really high tech safe house?” Foggy shrugged and Lantom had to remind himself that right now he could look through the grate if he wanted to, and eye contact was probably what the young man was looking for. “The Avengers found him on a ship in Somalia or something.”

“Really?” Not that he doubted it, but ...

“He was trying to kill Captain America. The people who took Matt, they drugged him, they tortured him, they fucked him up – “

“Language.”

“It’s what they did!” Nelson had no time for niceties. “And now he’s ... okay, so they brought him back, and he was a maniac. Tried to kill everyone in sight. Except for me.”

“He recognized you?”

“Sort of. Maybe? They did something to him – he’s mute. The doctor – and get this shit – “

“ _Language_.”

“- his doctor is _the Hulk_ – said there’s nothing wrong with his throat, it’s probably psychological. And sorry.” Nelson sighed. He was trying to force himself to slow down, to take time to breathe. “He’s been back for ten days, but I haven’t been able to tell anyone. They don’t want it to make the news and they don’t want the assh – people who did this to him to find him. It’s been driving me crazy. I would have gone to you immediately.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Lantom said, not disingenuously. “Can I see him?”

“So, that’s kinda the thing. He’s more of less done with detox, and they can’t get any useful information out of him, so he really needs to go to some treatment facility. They could do it under another name, but Matt hates hospitals. I’ve seen him walk around on a sprained ankle for weeks because he won’t go for an X-Ray. He say it’s the smell and the sounds of everyone around him. The sick and the dying. That’s not unreasonable, right?”

“No.”

“I told them I’m his power of attorney and I’m not signing off on anything I think he wouldn’t like. But nobody has any good suggestions.”

“Hmm.” Lantom looked at his shoes. This was his space to provide answers, but it didn’t come to him. Not immediately. “I need to see him first. Then I might be able to steer you to something.”

Nelson offers no fight whatsoever. “When can you get off work? Wait, are you ever off work?”

“I’m always available for emergencies,” Lantom replied, “and this is an emergency.”

*******************************

Of all the places Father Lantom expected to end up in his life - and he had been to some outrageous places in his missionary days – a fallout shelter in Long Island was not one of them. A polite, perpetually nervous doctor who was somehow also the person who had helped destroy/save half of Midtown spent a good deal of time going over a horrific medical history while Lantom listened, but his eyes were glued to Matthew Murdock.

Matt was slumped in a chair, his eyes open, but appearing clueless to everyone and everything around him, even with Nelson’s constant nudging. He had not acknowledged Lantom’s presence, or anyone else’s for that matter.

“So we’re down to a taper dose of clonazepam,” Dr. Banner continued, “and his bloodstream is reasonably clean. He should stay on the anti-stroke medication for another four weeks. He’s regained some motor functions and we were able to take him off TPN. But other than that ...”

“I know,” he replied. “I’ve seen this before.”

Matt said nothing, but it clearly took the other two people present by surprise.

“I spent a decade of my life in sub-Saharan Africa,” Lantom explained. “I was young and fearless and I felt that I had G-d on my side. I went a lot of places white Americans weren’t supposed to go. It was me and a few other seminarians. We ended up working in a lot of refugee camps. Kids were coming in fifteen, sixteen, after years of being drafted into militias. They were old enough to know right from wrong, so the warlords would let them watch action movies all morning, then give them hash or meth and they would fight all afternoon. They had no concept of what they were doing. They burned out very fast. When they were captured or escaped, they were traumatized addicts. They all dealt with it differently. Most of them were not exactly eager to discuss what happened. I still have contacts, mostly in the refugee crisis centers in New York. I’ll make some calls.” He refocused on Matt. “Matthew, we’re not going to send you away. We’re not going to sent you anywhere you don’t want to go.” He didn’t ask if Matt could hear him. Trying to guess at it was pointless. “I need a few minutes with him.”

He needed a lot more time than that, but they knew what he meant, and cleared the room. He knew it was futile to look into Matt’s eyes and expect a reaction, but it was hard not to, considering Lantom was offered only a blank expression in return.

“Matthew,” he said in earnest, “I know you’re in there. I know you may or may not hear this, but as long as you’re alive, your soul is in your body and I take responsibility for it.” This was one of the rare times when he wanted to make physical contact, even if it was just over the hand, but that sort of thing was discouraged these days, even casually, for people like him, and Matt couldn’t consent. “I’m not going to tell you that everything’s going to be okay. We all have scars from our past actions. Some of them don’t fade as quickly as we’d like them to. But whatever you’ve done, you can repent, and you can be forgiven. You can never be fully lost. G-d’s mercy goes beyond our sin.” Matt’s hands were limp in his lap, and Lantom slowly turned one over and put a medallion in it, closing the young man’s fingers over it. “I figured you’ve gotten enough Saint Lucy medallions over the years. This is Saint Raphael the Archangel. You don’t have to keep it. You don’t have to pray to him. I just figured you might want something to hold on to.”

Matt’s fingers remained curled around the metal. He must have been expending some effort to hold his hand out like that. He didn’t smooth his thumb over it to inspect the engraving like a blind man in desperate need of physical stimulation might.

But he didn’t drop it either.

*******************************

Honestly, Natasha didn’t know what took Fury so long. He must have been busy, doing whatever it was he did when he was laying low, not that she would ever be dumb enough to ask him about it. He was overseeing construction of the new SHIELD facility in the boondocks, but only from afar. So when he showed up at her personal safe house (for when the Tower got too noisy/flashy), she was hardly surprised, maybe even a little bored.

He was back in his Fury suit, complete with bulletproof armor, so it was not a social call. Not that Nick Fury made social calls. “Why did you request a director override on the Hound file?”

“Because I need it to change the status to inactive, and you keep changing your password.” She did give him the politeness of partially closing the laptop in front of her. “And I assume for a KIA you would want to see a body.”

“At the very least, I expect a full report first. The one that no one’s gotten around to filing?”

She shrugged. “So ask Rogers. He can’t tell a lie to save his life.”

“Asking the Cap to tell me his secrets is like kicking a dog that’s already down. The man can’t help himself.” Fury, who refused the initial offer of a seat despite his limp, leaned over and reopened the laptop so he could see the screen. There was nothing particularly interesting on it; she was going through backlogs of illegal weapons trades. “I won’t say I’ll just believe you on this one, but just give me something to go on.”

“Take the eight yakuza guys in our custody and ask them some questions.”

“They’re asking for asylum. They’re willing to give up half the Japanese mafia for it.”

“So they realized how far in over their heads they got themselves,” she said. “Good for them.”

“We can’t make an offer.”

“They don’t have anything we want anyway. Toss them to Interpol.” She looked up at him. “And the Somalis?”

“Pirates responding to an anonymous tip? We sent them home with bagged lunches.”

“Then everybody’s happy.”

Fury rolled his eye. “How deep is this going to go? I need you guys on Loki’s staff, not ninjas buying up Manhattan real estate.”

“We’re allowed to have side projects,” she replied. “And we should care about whatever nearby landmasses Tony doesn’t already own.”

“I can’t devote SHIELD resources to the Hand. They’ve always kept to themselves and until they start buying up Hydra weapons and actually using them, we don’t have an interest.”

“I’m not asking for logistical support. I’m asking for a favor. And that favor is to take the Hound off people’s watch lists, and let me have my hobbies.”

Fury nodded. “I’ll let you, but I don’t entirely trust this.”

Natasha smiled. “I would be genuinely surprised if you would.”

*******************************

Foggy Nelson, having put off the world for nearly two weeks, had his hands full with an unexpected hurdle to clear: Brett Mahoney.

“What the hell, man?” Brett shouted and Foggy was glad he initiated this conversation outside the precinct. “You find Murdock alive and you sit on it for _two weeks?_ ”

“There were ... problems. The people who found him are worried about his safety.”

“Over the NYPD? Those seem like some trustworthy people. Really looking out for him, are they?”

“Brett.” Foggy stepped much closer than he knew Brett would have liked him to be and lowered his voice. “I was supposed to tell you it’s the FBI, but it’s not. It’s the Avengers. That’s who found him. _The Avengers_. So yeah, they have their own thing going on, and I bet it’s not legal, but when Captain America shows up and he’s found your missing best friend, you don’t ask a lot of questions.” He didn’t wait for Brett to catch up. It was hard to get a jump on a police officer. “Look, we need to close this missing persons file but we need to do it quietly. And not here, where people would recognize him. He needs privacy.”

Brett swallowed and shuffled his feet. “Fingerprints and a DNA sample that we can match to the profile collected from his apartment. Taken in a police station. And I want to be there.”

“Yeah, of course. But, just so you know, Matt’s not going to look good. And he’s probably not going to be able to give a statement.”

“What happened to him?”

“That’s what everyone would like to know. Something with ... some kind of human trafficking. There’s probably a reason Matt’s not talking,” he said, and Brett’s posture slackened considerably as he bled empathy. “It’s going to be a while before he comes back. If he comes back at all. Maybe you could kind of, I don’t know, water the story down for Bess?”

“I’ll figure something out.” He didn’t looked pleased with what was ahead of him.

They did the meeting at a police station in Long Island. Matt was more mobile – walking around when he was led, eating what was put in front of him – but still in a stupor. Bringing him back to the city was discussed and then rejected vehemently by Foggy. Yes, there would be familiar sounds and smells. This apartment wouldn’t help – everything was in storage and Foggy didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d rented it out. The office wasn’t that different, but Karen was gone, and Matt wouldn’t know the new person and her scents. And this city, the one that Matt loved so much, had repaid him with nothing but hurt. Foggy didn’t know how many alleys Matt had bled in or how many secrets the inhabitants carried around that Matt knew. It was also where Matt had been snatched, so maybe it was good to be a little paranoid.

The local officers gave up on getting any testimony from Matt before Brett arrived. He was out of his jurisdiction, so this was his time off, and he was allowed to sit with Matt and Foggy in the room while they took Matt’s fingerprints and swabbed his mouth. They held his hand out to do it; he was still completely unresponsive to speech even though he passed hearing checks. He’d been downgraded from “catatonic” to “severe dissociation.”

“Hi Matt,” Brett said leaning in from across the table. “Do you recognize me?”

Foggy waited a few moments before he leaned in, “It’s Brett. He came to see you.” He turned back to Brett. “We think he can hear us.”

“That’s you and ...?”

“We found him a therapist. One who specializes in PTSD and identity disorders. It’s further upstate than I would like, but ...” Foggy shrugged.

Brett nodded. “You don’t look so bad, Matt. I like the beard. Foggy’s beard is shit, though.”

“I know, I know.” He nudged Matt in the shoulder with his knuckles. “Even he knows. He’s hiding his disgust. Matt, you’ve got a real poker face.”

It felt good to laugh.

*******************************

In the end, it was Steve who offered to help them make the trip. Someone from the Avengers had to go set up security, and Natasha was off doing whatever it was super-secret sort of ex-spies did in their spare time (Foggy didn’t ask and Steve didn’t have to not answer). Foggy had never driven that far in his life, though he didn’t find it that amazing that Captain America was a pretty good driver. It took the first hour for riding in a car with a superhero (something Matt had in the past refused to call himself) not to be weird. Even Father Lantom didn’t know quite what to say at first, but Steve turned out to be yet another good Catholic boy and so they fell into an easy “casual talk with the friendly parish priest” banter. And Lantom’s father had actually been in Normandy of all places.

Foggy texted Karen. _I am riding in the car with Captain America and it isn’t even a big deal_

_Yeah I know UR the coolest person in the world. ;)_ she wrote back. _How’s Matt?_

Matt’s head was against the car door next to him, his forehead resting on the glass.

“Karen says hi,” Foggy said. “She wants to know how you’re feeling.” He gave the polite amount of time for a response. _The same_ , he wrote. He wondered what Matt was picking up from the vibrations of the car, if he was picking up anything at all. He had no particular reason to be facing the window on a good day. “She says she got a speaking role on a soap opera. She’s pushed off a balcony ten pages in but she’s stoked anyway. We’ll have to watch it.”

“Soap opera characters should know better than to step out on a balcony,” Father Lantom said.

“How do you know?”

“There are only so many heroes in New York to stop by and debate the morality of beating someone up,” he replied. “Most people just light a candle and leave. There’s some slow periods.” He added, “And there’s only so much solitaire you can play.”

“My attendance record has taken a hit in the last seventy years,” Steve said, because Steve Rogers could say things like that.

Just shy of three hours they followed the signs to their destination, though most of the road signs for the monastery itself were small and simple and the accompanying brewery more meant to draw the attention of country drivers. The road went from pavement to gravel.

It wasn’t a hospital. That was the only reason Foggy agreed to it, as Matt had no input. It wouldn’t smell of disinfectants and the halls wouldn’t be filled with cries of pain. It wasn’t even an institution, where he would endure high security, strict rules, and tired nurses. He could at least give Matt that.

Father Lantom leapt out of the car as much as someone his age could leap and embraced one of the black-robed monks waiting at the parking lot entrance. “Thomas!”

“Walter!” the monk returned the hug, and only then Foggy realized that right, Father Lantom was a real person with a full name. Steve was helping Matt get out of the car, and Foggy pushed Matt’s cane into his hand, and when he didn’t seem to know what to do with it, put the strap around his wrist. Matt had never been good with new places _or_ nature, but it was impossible to gage his current level of confusion.

When the priestly chatter was over Lantom introduced them. “This is Brother Thomas, formerly Dr. Thomas, and the Abbot, Father John.”

In the brief introductions, either the monks didn’t recognize Steve or were polite enough to pretend not to. Their attention was on Matt, as it should have been. “Matthew.” Brother Thomas, the licensed therapist, took Matt’s hand from his side and shook it. “We spoke on the computer. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Or more accurately, Brother Thomas spoke and Foggy and Lantom answered questions over Skype. It was a long, difficult assessment on both sides, and it had to go up the monastic order’s hierarchy to be approved, but Thomas seemed experienced and could discern whether Matt was well enough to be outside of a hospital setting. They all agreed that it would be on a trial basis.

The monastery itself was a large complex, but it was mostly wood and brick, with a New England-styled white steeple, not like the gothic cathedrals in Europe. The building was converted from a New England colonial estate and the interior was mostly new. Saint John’s Abbey was only twenty years old, so the paintings were fresh and the ecumenical furnishings were imports from a former location. The guest house was in back in the building and private; tourists were only allowed on Saturdays and Sundays, and most of them came to sample the beer on IPA-tasting tours.

It was a quiet place, for contemplation rather than community service, for rest and for people who were deep in prayer, already halfway out of the world.

“Please don’t become a monk,” Foggy said and imagined Matt smiling in response instead of sitting listlessly in the armchair as Foggy changed the sheets on the guest bed over to silk ones. “If I hear anything about taking vows I’m sending you a strip-o-gram.” Of course that would require Matt actually being able to _recite_ vows, which would be a definite improvement. “And I’m going to check in on you. You bastard, making me buy a car. Where am I going to park it the rest of the week? I can’t leave a client to feed the meter.” He found Matt’s silence especially unnerving because it was so quiet here. There were no humming machines or passing cars or even the most basic city noises. If it wasn’t for their satellite internet, it was a step away from Amish land.

As Foggy and Steve packed what little Matt had and still wasn’t using – his laptop, his heavy folders of spiral-bound books, his unscented toiletries – Brother Thomas went over the rules and expectations, all of which had been previously agreed to. “He can skip Vigils but he goes to Lauds and Mass every morning and eats breakfast and lunch with us, dinner by himself, as he’s able to. Initial talk therapy every day after breakfast, and we’ll see how that goes. Matthew, for the time being, don’t go beyond the front courtyard. You can get lost if you don’t know the grounds and end up in the woods.” Thomas put an emergency bracelet around Matt’s wrist. The old Matt would never have agreed to wear one. “In case you get lost.” It had his basic information on one side and the word MATT in braille on the other. They didn’t know about the tracking device inside the tag; that was SHIELD’s business. Matt wouldn’t have agreed to that either, Foggy thought grimly. He was told about it before, but it wasn’t as if he could say no.

As Steve and Father Lantom said their goodbyes, Foggy lined up the bed stand with foam dinosaurs from their old office. It was stupid and pointless, but he taped a picture of him and Matt from their law school days on the wall next to a lamp that wouldn’t get much use either. “I looked like such a stoner back then. Not like the fine, upstanding member of the legal professional that I am now.” It was another thing Matt would have laughed at, maybe would laugh at in the future. Foggy took a seat on the bed and took a strong grip on his friend’s arm. “Matt, buddy, you’re here because we think it will help, but if you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay. I’m not leaving you someplace where you’ll be miserable. You just have to -,” he choked back the lump in his throat, “you have to _tell me_ somehow. I can’t keep guessing for you. I’m not happy about doing it.” He shook Matt, maybe a little harder than he meant to, but there was no resistance. “All you have to do is say a single world. _No,_ I don’t want to do this, I don’t want you to leave me here. _Yes_ , I’m going to be okay.” He was biting his lip so hard it drew blood. “Jesus Christ, _anything_.” He pulled Matt into a hug and Matt was – well, Matt was compliant. Foggy looked over his shoulder, trying to focus on something other than tears. “There’s a picture of him above your bed, by the way. The one where you can see his heart and it’s creepy and glowing and also on fire?” He felt Matt’s beard and hair against his skin. One of them needed to shave. “Just – try to get better, okay? Because I’m not leaving you here forever. I don’t think I could take losing you again.” He withdrew and wiped his nose. “Sorry. That shouldn’t be on you. It’s my life to ruin with overeducation and debt and whatever car insurance is going to cost me. Just feel better.” He kissed him on the forehead. “That’s all you have to do.”

But he knew it was asking a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next - Something from Matt's point-of-view!
> 
> Comments feed the Beast.


	7. Here There Be Monsters

His heart was pounding in his chest, going faster and faster because it was the only thing to listen to. There were plugs in his ears and they itched and he could feel them, but they were sealed with Vaseline, so they wouldn’t even jiggle when he bobbled his head back and forth. This would always end with him slamming the back of his head against the cage floor with frustration, with made a satisfying little echo in his head and brought him a bright flash of pain, and that pain was at least something new, and he needed new. He needed new things to latch on to, and there was so little of it, and no way to get to what he know must be out there – sounds, smells, tastes, feelings against his fingers, which were wrapped in gloves and cuffed to his sides, so they were inert, unable to give him any sensation except the tingling when they feel asleep, which he _hated_ , but could do nothing about.

When he breathed deeply he felt the air in the inside of his lungs, stale and moist, like he was somewhere underground, but the chemicals right under his nose stung and prevented any more information. It was probably dark in the room since he didn’t feel the heat of the sun or an incandescent lamp, but that was basically a guess.

More than a few times, he thought he had flashes – actual visions – of the room that he was looking at. A basement. A jail cell. A cave. Later (how much later?) his brain would try to process it logically and rule it out as a hallucination. His eyes didn’t work, they hadn’t worked in years, there was too much retinal scarring from that toxin to start working now, when he most needed them, only to align with his vacillating imagination as that vision went in and out.

Taste was the only real thing he had, and it was always the same – the bit in his mouth, holding down his tongue. The metal between his teeth was steel, and tasted like an old car and blood. He grew to love the taste of blood, if only his own. It was salty and sweet and had a little bit of tang it was something new, so he kept trying to push his tongue or the side of his cheek against the muzzle, to tear skin and muscle and make it bleed until his whole mouth felt like it was filled with tiny pinpricks.

When he couldn’t focus – and that seemed to be almost all of the time – his breathing would cause his body to hitch up and his chest to tighten and he was fairly sure the bit was in there so he didn’t swallow his tongue, so there was always more air, enough not to choke himself to death. Suicide was a mortal sin and he was more than ready to try to do it, but he still spent more time trying to calm down than get worked up. He always failed either way, and it always ended badly, with him an exhausted, shivering mess, his thin clothing soaked, and tears in his eyes he wished he could drink. They would be salty and clean and his mouth always felt dirty. Eventually he would pass out for some period of time, only noticeable because there was a different taste in his mouth, and the sweat around him had cooled or dried up, and nature called and he couldn’t do much about it except the obvious.

He was going to go crazy like this. He couldn’t wait for it to happen – for a chance to stop _thinking_ and _focusing_ and _concentrating_ and trying to _breath_ and trying _not to be here_ , in the moment, more aware than he had ever been of his own body but less aware of everything outside of it.

And the other side said, _No, you have to make it through this_. _You can –_

That voice was getting very faint. He knew he should try to hold on to it, to listen to it, to make sure he didn’t let it go. That was what he had been trying to do, but he was very tired, and it was easier not to listen and focus on his heartbeat, trying to count to it, keep it at a healthy rate. That was hard enough. Plans, schemes, outside concerns, thoughts – those were as beyond him as whatever was beyond his immediate body. He could still keep time, maybe for minutes or hours, and pass out, to wake up gasping –

And suddenly was all too much. There were too many sensations rushing up in his nose, into his ears, down his throat, to the point of choking him with his own senses. When he gasped for clean air (and the slight smell of mildew and old wood) he could open his whole mouth, but he couldn’t get it into his constricted chest fast enough. His heart was pounding, drowning out all the other sounds that were further away from his own body. He flailed wildly, one of his hands knocking over something that crashed (a lamp? The one with a porcelain stand?) and the other pulled on a loose sheet (silk, promised 1000 thread count but more like 900, maybe 850, companies always skimped when they thought people couldn’t notice) and _squeezed_ until it hurt and he felt his nails digging into his palm. His new freedom of movement was startling, and his bearings were so wild that he went back and forth until he toppled over the side of the bed and onto the floor. He could smell the singed wire from the broken light bulb, but mostly the mixed smells of the area rug (old, handmade, two or three people sewing it, at least one had pricked herself in the process and bled on it, three different dyes used in the yarn). His arms kept moving. He hit the bar of his bed frame with his elbow and it hurt, but the hurt made him force himself to focus, and the other hand was more careful to find the dresser, and the broken lamp beneath it. He smoothed his fingers against the polished wood until he found the clock, the medallion, and finally the dinosaurs. He grabbed the first one, a brontosaurus (apatosaurus?) with the long neck and the long tail to match and he squeezed it, knowing the foam would let his fingers make indentations, then bounce back unharmed. He matched the tightening of his fist around the stress toy with his breathing so it could find its rhythm.

He stretched his hearing beyond his own body. He was not alone – twelve heartbeats, all familiar. Nine sleeping, at resting heartrate. One awake, trying to sleep, the monk tossing and turning and his body groaning with it. One half-asleep, mumbling prayers in Latin (the rosary) with his head dipped and his forehead resting against the pew in front of him. The last watching YouTube videos in the computer room, giggling, with headphones on (talk show clips, celebrities making nonsense talk to each other, but it was people talk and he wasn’t supposed to listen to people talk, those were persons, he was not a person, he had to remind himself).

Elsewhere, smaller, the cat. Out and about, mousing, not finding anything (the mice were in the cellar mostly, their little hearts always racing). It was extra agitated, probably heard the crash. Beyond that, the creaking of old wood settling, and crickets, so many crickets, deafening crickets that could keep him awake at night.

All of this was familiar and soft and he tried his best to manage his intake. He had a sense of the room again, with all of its dimensions. His scent all over one of the twin beds, over the braille books untouched on the desk, over his clothes and the clock with the alarm that was old and his and spoke to him (it was a computer voice so it was okay). Pictures on the wall, he wasn’t sure of what, because two were behind glass frames. One was a wooden icon painting, done with traditional oils, probably a saint. It had a texture he could feel, but the oils on his skin would hurt the finish, so he didn’t. Something hanging with sticky tape on the wall, smelled like a photograph from the print and the glue. He knew every inch of his room, what smelled like him and what didn’t, what was his and what was on loan, who had been here recently, and who was coming now. Heartbeats were outside the door. In another few moments, people were gathered around him, in various states of flowing pajamas or wool robes. They were talking people talk to him. They always did that. They sounded kind. Their voices were gentle, and the way they touched him was hesitant, forgiving when he flinched. They would back away if he needed it. He was shivering now from wearing damp clothes on a cold floor, and one of them (the one with a beard, glasses, had two tin medallions on chains under his clothing at all times, talked to him every day) pulled a fresh blanket from the other bed (also wool, rawer, threads coming free in all directions) and wrapped it around him. His chest still hurt. The cat slipped in unnoticed between the monks and leapt onto his emptied bed. She smelled of dew and other things from the outside. He wished for her stealth. There were too many voices. The man took his pulse, said cooing things to him, and he tried to focus on calming down, so they would go away. They meant well, but they were all very loud even when they were quiet.

They didn’t hover. They convinced him to change his shirt and put him on fresh sheets, and one of them (fat, longer beard, smelled like hops) sat with him as he hugged the extra pillow and feigned sleep. His heart was no longer racing, it no longer hurt to breathe, and the flow of sensory input was manageable, but he did not sleep, afraid of where he would go if he did.

*******************************

“Hello Matthew.”

They were people words but it was harder and harder to ignore all of them. The monks didn’t make stupid small talk but they talked a lot: they prayed, they sung, they discussed theology, they counseled each other. They talked to him, always very politely, with less and less hesitation when the days (Weeks? Months? It was colder out. Snow on the ground) went by. Always called him by a name. Never demanded a response.

“I’m Brother Gregory,” the monk said (fat, longer beard, hops, almost always smiling). “I’m sorry to keep introducing myself. Are you lost?”

Question. He was supposed to answer it. He wasn’t lost. He had been walking down the hallway, keeping his left hand out against the paneling. It was wood, smoothed and even with the occasional groove. He was familiar with all of them. The door to his left led to the kitchen. In front of him, his path would continue to the far end and the chapel, and he would loop his way back again. He could feel the sun on his cheek, low for winter, brighter when it bounced off the snow.

The monk (fat, hops, always nice, a little excitement brimming under his skin) waited and said, “If you’re lost, I can take you back to your room.” He heard him shuffling his feet a little bit. He was carrying something. A basket of dry goods. Probably on an errand. “Just let me know.” He stepped into the kitchen, out of his path, and he knew that the monk would wait for him to continue on, then leave him alone. Which he did.

He was never lost. He knew everything about the building. He knew where all the monks were, what they were doing, what animals had taken up residence here (known and unknown), which ones would approach the building seeking warmth but ultimately be too timid to come inside. The monks threw scraps out for the deer and the bears they probably did not know about. It was too cold for him to go outside now, which was why he treated the outer halls like a track. He didn’t like nature much, anyway. Sound had little or nothing to bounce off of, giving him a blank canvas to work with. Wind carried smells away and challenged his placement of them. Winter was the worst; snow smelled like nothing and covered everything, blinding his senses. For all he cared, there was no world outside the windows at all except for a few scattered animal heartbeats and the occasional sound of a car or truck on the road.

His days were mild. He was usually awake before someone came to collect him. He heard their early morning prayers from his room, half-grumbled after they downed their coffee, then the early work and nodding off before it was time for more prayer and Mass. He sat where he was placed, in the back row, cane at his side (he rarely used it, felt like the _tap-tap_ would draw attention to himself). He could smell the Host as it was raised (recently baked, smelled lightly of cinnamon, must have been put in the oven right after the rolls) but sat passively through the service, whether in English or Latin. Sometimes he snuck in a toy, or the medallion from his room, and felt the texture between his fingers, and no one said anything about it. After services another monk spoke softly to him, took him by the arm (by the fabric, not by his actual arm) and escorted him to breakfast. The food was plain but fresh; they had a garden and made their own preserves. There weren’t many chemicals to object to, though he occasionally left something on his plate if it stunk of artificial flavors or something it shouldn’t have smelled like (the mice pooped in the cereal when they made their way into it). Food was eaten in silence. The abbot used too much salt (wasn’t supposed to, heart condition), the monk who had his own brand of shampoo (probably Head and Shoulders, for dandruff) sneezed at the pepper but pretended it didn’t bother him, and the one who cooked the food usually ate whatever was left on the plates during cleanup. The rest went to the cat or the compost heap.

The monk named Thomas came to talk to him before lunch. There was a table in his room, and they would sit across from each other, and Thomas would scribble in his book. He liked the smell of freshly-sharpened pencil touching paper. He liked the sound it made as filament met the sheet. He preferred to listen to the writing than anything the monk had to say.

The monk must have noticed something. Today he pushed the a fresh notepad across the table and picked up his limp hand, closing his fingers around the pencil. “Do you want to write something?”

People words. So hard to ignore. He was hearing them all the time and it was bad. The voice he was supposed to listen to was not there. It had not told him what to do for a very long time. He wondered when it was coming back. He listened to the monk’s heart, steady and patient. A little soothing. His breathing was trying to spike in apprehension but he was keeping it down; the monk wanted to be patient for him.

And he did like that sound. The pencil was thin and the point was freshly-sharpened so he touched it to the pad gingerly at first, afraid he would break it. Slowly he dragged it across, making somewhat messy, curved strokes as he filled up the empty space with lead, imprinting something on raw paper that could never be fully removed. It was messy on the back of his hand and eventually on his other hand (to hold the paper down as he grew more frantic with it) and in the end he had lead shavings smudged into his skin but the paper was covered; he checked it with his thumb, looking for escaped patches.

The monk left the pad with a box of pencils and the sharpener, and in two days he’d finished the whole book.

“Can you write your name?”

It was such an odd question. People called him lots of things. It was really up to them. They weren’t known for getting things right. They called the cat Benedictus and the cat was female.

The monk hesitated. His words were curled up at the back of his throat longer than they normally were. “Your name is Matthew.”

He really didn’t understand. He couldn’t explain to this nice man why he didn’t understand. But he did remember long, forced sessions a long time ago, trying to make out something he could not see, but was important, and he could _remember_ seeing. Something too important to be allowed to forget.

Slowly, with all the precision he had for something visual (which was almost none), he scrawled out what he hoped were the letters Em.Aye.Tee.Tee.

Matt. His name was Matt.

*******************************

On Saturdays and Sundays other people came: some lay people who volunteered for the church (they were called oblates, and he was introduced to them), some people who just joined the services, and the late-season beer-drinkers to taste and buy a six-pack of Monk’s Brew (probably out of guilt, because the beer smelled pretty bad, so he assume it didn’t have a great taste). Sunday Mass was the one he was not present for. It was the one he fought them on in the beginning, whenever that was, by grabbing onto his door frame and holding it tighter than they could pull, or hearing the foreign voices and disappearing in the other direction (the monks were not very fast), until they gave up.

He had one visitor take up his time anyway, either on Saturday or Sunday, except when it was snowing, and then he didn’t come in person but he talked over the computer that the monks set up. Foggy (long hair, unscented shampoo, familiar) talked incessantly. Usually it washed over him, giving him an odd but comforting feeling of home and nostalgia, but words slipped in here and there that he could not un-process. Foggy was kind but more insistent in his touching. He always hugged him, ignoring whatever squirming he did to get away from it, but he didn’t always squirm. This time he took Matt’s hand (yes, his name was definitely Matt) and rubbed it against his cheek (oily skin, acne scars, shaved with an electric razor that morning). “Everyone else was complaining about it. I figured you were just being polite.”

He remembered this face. It came from the dark abyss in the back of his mind where all these old memories came from, the place that howled when poked.

“I have to say, you’re an amazing artist.” Foggy was holding up one of the finished sheets of paper. Matt could smell the lead. “What is this? Batman riding a black griffon at night?”

He didn’t like the drawings; he just liked making them. He didn’t understand the fascination, but it was so genuine, it was impossible not to be okay with it. Foggy was full of energy. Even when he tired, or sad, or just went on about work or school – which he did sometimes, and Matt let him – he wanted to talk. He always wanted to talk. He brought things: books, new CDs for the audio player, more toys that could be squeezed, little soft things that could be hugged. This week he brought one that was made of felt. It was oblong, with a round protrusion on one side.

“It’s a stuffed avocado. I got it on Etsy.” Foggy was smiling. He made the room warmer when he smiled. He smiled especially hard when Matt stroked it, finding all of the grooves in the lining. It was hand-sewn, a little unevenly. He would have to be gentle with it. “Got way overcharged on shipping but you’re worth it. You’d better be worth it, Murdock.”

Foggy talked about his boring dissertation the rest of the day. It was the best day of Matt’s week.

*******************************

His consternation started with the cat. He didn’t remember being a cat person, or an animal person, but she was understandable. She didn’t make any demands of him beyond what she made as an animal, which meant that she wanted his bed (the whole bed) or his food or his attention and she could indicate that all with a noise and not people words. She was soft, and she didn’t touch back except when she wanted to be stroked and shoved her whole head up against his side without the hesitation of the nervous monks. Their friendship was within certain limits. Only sometimes would he hold her and think what it would take to snap her neck – nothing, probably. He could crush her throat with his thumb. She might make a little sound but it would be fast, and it wouldn’t be a normal sound, like the purring she was doing now. He wondered what her blood would taste like. Probably not good. She was an animal. They weren’t so different.

And then she disappeared for two weeks and it drove the monks crazy. With two feet of snow on the ground, he was worried, too, but he understood why. She smelled different before leaving, and there weren’t any male cats around. Animals did animal things. His surprise at her return, underweight, soaked, and smelling of other cats and gasoline and people’s porches was genuine. It had been a really stupid trip. She was lucky the monks had called animal control looking for her, and that they had found her, and she smelled of the van that delivered her, pumped full of vaccines and stitched in several places. She had to eat food with antibiotics, which she didn’t, and hunger made her snippy. Catching mice was hard when you could barely get out of your new cat bed, though she did manage to make it down the hall and into Matt’s.

Two months later, they had all forgotten about her winterland adventures except for Matt when she woke him from a deep sleep by howling and digging her claws into his skin through his shirt, something she didn’t normally do. He knew what was coming. He didn’t know what to do exactly except give her the bed. It was warm and she wanted it and he took up a vigil in the chair next to her, stroking her when she would allow it (rarely), wondering if he should get her something or just let nature take its course.

Hours later, the monk who came to get him (Gregory, his name was Gregory, and he was the cook/master brewer, that was why he smelled faintly of hops) shrieked, and Matt smiled a little inside, because _What the hell were you expecting, with a pregnant cat?_

Then they tried to move Benedictus – and her kittens – from where she was so tiredly trying to rest and Matt didn’t have time to think before he shouted, “No!”

That got them the hell away. He covered his mouth and backed away, rushing to hide in the bathroom, or under the bed, waiting for the pain that didn’t come.

“Matthew – “

He wasn’t falling for that trap. He ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and sunk to the ground, hoping to stave them off. Waiting for the inevitable. He wasn’t quite sure what the inevitable was, but he could feel it coming. He remembered the routine – not all of it, just that there had been a routine, and he was going to get hurt, and he was going to deserve it.

He was there for a long time. No one broke down the door, or tried to pick the lock, or shouted at him after the first couple tries. His limbs were sore from tension. He was hungry. Thirsty. Too tired to protect himself. A bit ashamed of that. So much, much later, when Brother Thomas knocked, and announced himself with various promises of friendship, Matt pulled the key out of the lock and let it swing open.

Brother Thomas was very calm, very non-threatening. He sat down on the stool at the end of the room. “Matthew,” he said patiently, the way he said everything, but with every vowel dragged out to make sure he was heard, “who told you that you weren’t allowed to speak?”

He didn’t have an answer to that. If he wanted to, and he didn’t want to, there was no answer. There must have been something at some point, some information he’d forgotten, but his mind was blank.

“Whoever that was, they had no right to do that,” the monk said. “And they’re gone. They can’t hurt you. Do you understand me when I say that no one here will hurt you?”

Matt could hear the kittens mewling for their mother for the first time in their lives. It must have taken all of their strength. Breakfast was almost ready – cold cereal and hot apple cider donuts. There were four people in the chapel, the abbot flipping through the hymnal at the pulpit. There was an oblate there who smelled of antiseptic. He had a sick grandson. He hadn’t gone to sleep the night before. Brother Clarence was trying to clear the new patches of ice on the front steps with an ice pick and a shovel but he was told old for it and his back was throbbing.

“Do you believe me?”

Matt wondered how to escape this room, which had turned into his own little patch of hell while people were going about their ordinary lives, and decided to nod. He waited for something that never came.

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do,” Brother Thomas said. He had said it before and so far it had been true; Matt could give him that. “But you will feel better if you can start communicating with us.”

Matt wasn’t sure about that point, but he wasn’t willing to fight him.

“Now, do you want to hear Mass?”

Matt did.

*******************************

It was ridiculous, how scared Matt was. Of everything, every moment that he dared to open his mouth, or waited when they expected him to. He didn’t know why he was scared of these people. They were harmless. They were soft, fleshy things that could be devoured by things in the world that sought them hard. One word from the voice and he would be one of those things. They could be scared of _him_ , but instead they trusted him and even gave him dangerous things, like dinner knives and scissors and other things with sharp edges.

But he hadn’t heard the voice in a long time. It was very specific; he was sure he wouldn’t have missed it. He didn’t know how long it had been, just never _this_ long, and it made him anxious. The past was a rising tide around him, yet could still startle him. When he heard his own voice, raw and somewhat unfamiliar, he braced himself from a shock that didn’t come.

Foggy cried. Foggy Nelson (yes, there was that, that name) cried over a damn greeting, and Matt remembered that this was not the first time he’d made Foggy cry, but also that all the other times had been worse and Foggy had been upset, and now he was happy and his body shook with joy when he hugged him. “You have no idea how crazy you’ve driven me with your mime act.”

He didn’t know what to say. Often. “Okay.”

Foggy hammered him with questions he couldn’t answer, either because he didn’t know the answers or because he didn’t want to. The flow of conversation was no longer natural to him, and there were a lot of stops and starts and blank spaces where he could not fill the silence and was still a little afraid to try. Benedictus sat on his lap, trying to make a pillow out of him, and he liked the way she flattened her ears when he scratched her throat.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” Foggy said after too many unanswered questions. The ones he did answer were easy ones – was he happy where he was? ( _Yes_ ) Was everyone treating him well? ( _Yes_ ) Did he need anything? ( _No_ ) Really? ( _Yes_ ) Was he really sure about the strip-o-gram? (No answer) That sounds like a ‘No’ Matt (No answer) Don’t worry I don’t want you to get run out of here (No answer) Damnit at least smile at my bad jokes (He smiled a little bit)

“Just ... we didn’t know if you were making any progress,” Foggy said, biting back more tears. “I mean, not that you have to. But we wanted you to.” He wiped his eyes, trying to be inconspicuous while he did so. “Do you know how long you’ve been here?”

He didn’t, and he was too embarrassed to offer up that simple answer. Foggy was good at guessing at his silence anyway.

“Four months,” Foggy said. “I don’t know if that’s a lot or a little amount of time, considering what happened to you, but it felt like a long time. My odometer says it’s been a long time.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t feel bad about my life choices. Don’t even begin to feel bad about this,” Foggy said, one of his fists on the table. “You’ve got enough damn Catholic guilt anyway.”

“Language,” he said in an undertone.

Foggy burst out laughing.

*******************************

Brother Thomas was a little more insistent at their next session. Matt could hear the way his hand tightened around his pencil, could smell the prepped questions written in lead. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Try your best to answer them. And understand that ‘I don’t know’ is an acceptable answer to any of them.”

Matt nodded.

“What’s your full name?”

“Matthew Michael Murdock.” It sounded strange in his ear. Too much alliteration.

“Where were you born?”

“Hell’s Kitchen, New York.”

“How old are you?”

He blanked, and it was embarrassing. He didn’t answer.

“What year is it?”

He really didn’t ... he wasn’t sure. It was winter and he remembered Christmas, but that didn’t help him as much as he thought it would. But the silence was oppressive, even if it was his silence. “2015.”

“Are you guessing or do you know?”

“Guessing.”

“It’s 2016. You weren’t very far off.” Thomas tried to sound reassuring. He’d shaved with a fresh razor this morning. Matt wondered if he knew that Matt knew that. “Do you know how long you’ve been here?”

Another stumper. Were they all going to be like this? He was regretting speaking at all. “It was Fall.”

“When you arrived.”

“Yes.” Then he remembered. “Foggy said four months.”

“You’re doing very well, Matthew.” Thomas was making notes. “Do you know where you were right before you came here?”

He didn’t like the question. It made him think about things that were surrounded by a wall of pain, but he didn’t want to show weakness, either. He was tired of weakness. “A lab.”

“Do you know why you were there?”

“I was sick.”

“Do you remember where you were before that?”

He remembered smells. The sea. Rust. The sweat as it settled in filthy clothing worn by desperate men. The tiny piece of metal he was given that didn’t smell or taste like other metals. It vibrated between his teeth. It was the scent he was given when the voice said to kill. “No.”

“You disappeared for a while. About a year. What’s the last thing you remember before that time?”

Tougher question. Really required some digging. Foggy was involved. He was sure about that. And Karen ... where was Karen? He hadn’t thought about her in a long time. That didn’t seem right. She was there for him when he needed her. It was supposed to be reciprocal. “Halloween.” He searched for more. “Kids trick-or-treated in the office complex dressed as Daredevil. Foggy thought it was really funny.”

“Who is Daredevil?” The way he said it – plainly, open-faced – made Matt realize that a monk living in a secluded monastery might not have a reason to know about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

“A vigilante,” he answered. “Local. Not an Avenger.”

It was a very strange world that they were in, because nothing about his answer surprised or particularly interested Thomas, though his heart rate did spike at the word ‘Avenger’ so he must have known who _they_ were. “Do you remember who brought you here?”

“No.” Then he answered, “Foggy?”

“Do you remember Father Lantom?”

“Yes.”

“He and I were in seminary together. We did mission work in Africa, mostly counseling refugees. I specialized in it for a number of years before taking the cowl. Your friend Foggy didn’t want to send you to a hospital, so Walter – Lantom – called me, and we made arrangements for you to stay here. But it was Steve Rogers who actually drove you.”

A long pause, and then a smile. “I met Captain America?” He sounded like a child, but it was kind of exciting.

“Pride is a sin, but a few of the brothers did ask for his signature,” Thomas said. “He was very gracious about it.”

“I remember him.” He waved his hand in front of his eyes. “Before the accident. The comic strip him.” It was his longest sentence since – well, Halloween maybe?

“Yes, he’s much larger in person,” Thomas said with a chuckle. “He’s called to ask about you a few times. We don’t offer any information, obviously. He just wants to express his concern.”

“I ... don’t remember meeting him,” Matt said. He didn’t know why the thought was making him uncomfortable. He seemed like a nice guy. “Did he tell you anything?”

Matt listened to the lump of tension rise in Brother Thomas’s body. “There’s a year missing from your timeline. Do you remember where you were?”

It was a dodge. “I don’t ...” He didn’t want to lie to this man. It wasn’t all darkness. He just didn’t know what was real. “I don’t know.” It was as close to an honest answer as he could provide. “ _You_ know.”

“There’s an ongoing investigation.” The monk raced to correct himself. “Not a _police_ investigation. I don’t fully understand the nature of it, but you don’t have to worry. You just have to focus on your recovery.”

“You know _something_.”

“There was almost nothing upfront. Walter knew my background as a therapist and he implied that I might be the right person to help you. I told them to update me if they thought it was relevant to your condition. They haven’t.”

He wasn’t lying. Matt wondered if they told him Matt could hear lies, but he also wanted to stop poking the slumbering beast in his brain. “Okay.”

He already knew, and maybe Brother Thomas knew, that inside him lurked a monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favorite chapter to write and re-read. I don't know why.


	8. Stick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was some prompt on Dreamwidth about Matt fangirling over Steve Rogers. I'm sort of filling it? In that I wrote this before the request, and pretty much everyone fangirls over Steve Rogers in this fic. Repeatedly.
> 
> I mean come on, people do it in real life and he's not even REALLY a superhero who fought Nazis.

The strip club was seedy, and that was saying a lot. It was in a small town, and didn’t have the big-time seediness of wannabe mobsters in flashy suits and fake gold watches. Instead it was more hardworking men in jeans downing brand name beers, and somehow it still managed to smell extra bad, as if to ward off customers. Clint classed up the joint in his yard work outfit, and Natasha was a downright supermodel hidden beneath a grey hoodie.

It was a place nobody wanted to go, making it a fantastic place to hide.

Natasha walked in like she owned the place, and everyone either assumed she was a dancer or that she did, because she wasn’t bothered with so much as a word by the people who did notice her as she passed the blacked-out windows and ducked through the beaded curtain into the back hallway. The building was so small and shoddily built the wood paneling throbbed with the awful music. She braced herself against the hallways next to the door with the manager nameplate and signaled for Clint to pull out his collapsed bow, but from the smell she sensed he would have no use for it, and she was right.

Their target was already dead, slumped forward on his desk, headless. The arterial spray had slowed but it stained not just the desk but the carpet in front of it. Both of them took aim at the intruder holding the bloody katana in the corner.

“Put those away.” His head spun around at their presence, but didn’t face any direction in particular. It was easy enough to see how he had gotten in – he was dressed as a janitor – and his free hand was busy finding the hidden panel for the liquor cabinet. He withdrawal a very expensive bottle of liquor, pulled out the cork with his teeth, and said, “Sorry you missed the party,” before taking a long gulp.

Natasha put down her gun, and Clint followed suit. The old man’s pupils were so clouded it was hard to see what color his eyes were supposed to be. “You’re Stick.”

He took an exaggerated sniff in their direction. “You’re a black widow.” He grinned. “I knew your handler.”

“She said you weren’t friends.”

“Not the term I would use, either.” He took another swig. “But we didn’t kill each other so draw your own conclusions.” He waved in the general direction of the dead Japanese club owner that she was inching towards. “Don’t bother. He didn’t know anything useful.”

“He was a double agent for the Hand and the Yakuza. Those are rare.”

Stick laughed. “Seems like the Hand is taking anybody these days. At least this guy had the brains to get out of Dodge. Not that he made it far.” He gestured like he was tipping his hat and casually walked to the door that Clint was blocking.

“It’s really not helpful to us if you kill everyone we’re looking for,” Clint said, standing his ground. “We could team up.”

“To do what? You’re the good guys. You’re all over the news and magazines and other things I’ve heard about.” He pointed to the dead man with his sword. “Where do you think this road ends? With everyone sitting down and talking about their feelings? Maybe someone going to jail to think about what they’ve done wrong? Even if I needed you, you wouldn’t help me. You’d get in the way.”

“Do you think leaving a trail of bodies is going to make Matthew Murdock feel better?”

“Like I give a _fuck_ what he thinks,” he said with more conviction than he’d had so far. It made it hard to tell if it was true. “Thinks he’s the center of the G-ddamn universe. Like there’s nothing else going on above him.”

Natasha sighed. “You could at least talk to him. Maybe then he’d know.”

“He wouldn’t like what I have to say,” Stick asserted. “Never does. Now get out of my fucking way.”

Clint looked at Natasha, who nodded, and he moved. Once outside the door, Stick closed his katana up in the case and proceeded to use it like an ordinary cane, whistling as he went.

Natasha collected the blood-drenched laptop and they ran for the car. Probably best for the Avengers not to be seen leaving the scene of a murder. Clint waited until he was behind the wheel to say, “What a douche.”

“I guess if you’re the head of a group of assassins, you get to do whatever you want. At this rate he’ll take out the entire Hand if they don’t hand over the people who did this to Murdock. Unless we find them first.”

Clint looked around, and despite lacking a car, the blind ninja was already gone. “Sounds like it might be a good idea.”

*******************************

Foggy’s answer couldn’t have been clearer. “Absolutely no fucking way.”

Natasha exchanged glances with Clint and Steve and they all stared at the speakerphone. “Have you ever met Stick?”

“No, but he sounds like a terrible person. I don’t know what I would do if I did meet him. Something stupid, probably.” He waited on their silence. “I’m not wrong, am I? He’s up to something bad?”

“Yes,” Steve said with a swallow.

“My basic understanding is that Matt and Stick were not on good terms. As in, they beat the shit out of each other. So how do you think telling him all this would help?”

“We’re not asking him to fight Stick,” Natasha clarified. “We don’t even have to mention him. But we do want to find who did this, and Matt might have information he hasn’t been able to share.”

“The therapist said he might not remember anything.” Nelson sounded very much like he wanted it to be true. “I haven’t asked and Matt hasn’t offered. He has to do this on his own timeline.”

Natasha wasn’t thrilled about playing this card, but Nelson was their gateway to Matt. “How do you think he’s going to feel when he finds out Stick was murdering people left and right on his behalf and we decided not to tell him?”

“ _What_.” Foggy couldn’t even make it into a question.

“He’s conducting his own investigation,” Clint said, “Leaving a trail of bodies while doing it.”

There was static on the other end. Nelson clearly didn’t know what to say. Maybe he also wasn’t used to the idea of enough dead bodies to leave a trail. “Okay.” There was another long pause. “This is fucked up. You guys are fucked up.”

“Language,” Steve said.

“Shut up! I need to think.” He was getting so worked up he hadn’t noticed he’d just cut off Captain America. “You can ask him some questions, but I can cut the conversation off whenever I want. Or whenever Matt wants.”

“Understood.”

“I’m going to call him first, see if he’s even up for this. And if this goes south, I’m suing all of you. I don’t care if you’re rich secret agents and national heroes. I’ll make it work. I’m good at it.”

There was enough conviction in his voice that no one doubted that he was.

*******************************

Matt could tell how unhappy Foggy was with the situation. He’d proposed something that he’d been trying to talk him out of at the same time. It wasn’t a lawyer tactic; he was truly conflicted. He paced the room furiously, his heart rate considerably above normal.

“It’s okay.” Matt wasn’t sure it was, but hey, he was going to meet _Captain America_ (again, apparently). “They wouldn’t have brought it up and you wouldn’t have agreed to it unless it was important.”

Foggy sighed. “Yeah.” He stopped pacing on front of Matt. “You haven’t – I haven’t asked. About your memory.”

And Matt didn’t want to answer. “There’s ... a little. But I don’t remember being rescued.”

“You were on a shit-ton of drugs.”

“You won’t tell me which ones.”

“Because addicts relapse. And you can’t relapse if –

“ – I don’t know what I’ve taken.” They’d had this conversation before. It was awkward the first time and it was awkward this time. “I’m on drugs _now_.”

“For very reasonable anxiety. It’s different.” Foggy felt so guilty justifying it, Matt thought he could smell it. “I know I signed off on a lot of things you might not have consented to, and I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“And you can talk to your doctor about tapering. You can stop it all tomorrow if you want. But you know it would be bad. I just – “ Foggy breathed differently when he couldn’t find his words. Everyone did. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Again.”

Matt debated explaining the impracticality of that statement, but Foggy’s phone chimed. “They’re pulling up. Are you sure you want to do this?”

He put on his new glasses and stood. “I don’t want to be useless, Foggy. That won’t make me feel better.”

“You’re not – okay. Okay.” Despite all of his dodging and shielding and overprotective behavior, Foggy was trying to get through an impossible swamp of what was supposed to be best for _Matt_ , at all times. Matt couldn’t begin to thank him for that. “Let’s do this.”

Matt didn’t need Foggy to guide him – he knew the property much better – but took his arm anyway. Outside the snow was packed in so heavily from the long winter that the snow line was two feet high and operated more like guiding walls than covering, and only constant maintenance keep the path for visitors clear. The forest was particularly quiet. Even Matt had to stretch himself to hear the bear wandering in the foods, occasionally scratching at patches of dirt with his paws, and the squirrels cowering over their stashes of nuts.

There were three heartbeats in the car pulling up to the driveway. Two male, one female. Underneath the perfume and body lotion she had a weird smell. He couldn’t place it. He’d been told who they were, and that they’d met before, and how he had spent two weeks in their care, but he had no distinct memories of them. He didn’t like what little he _did_ remember.

The tallest member of the trio stepped out of the car and he –

\- That _smell_ , he knew that smell, that metallic smell, he knew what it tasted like, he knew what it felt like between his teeth. It was so distinct, the little chunk he was given so alive with the strange humming. Even when he bit down he could never make it still –

He dropped the hand holding Foggy’s arm just in time, he could have broken it as his fist clenched, and his whole body clenched into one tight ball and at the center, in his stomach, food and acid sought escape from the pressure but he would never allow it. He was in total control of his body, his senses, he knew his _mission_ , it was his job, his purpose, he knew what would happen if he didn’t do it -

But the other side of him, the _Matt_ side that had fought so hard so long ago and lost, was aware of all of this and fighting it. He was trying to be a good person, he was not afraid of being hurt, the voice could not reach him here and even if it did he would fight it, he had to fight it, he had to win this time, he could not take falling apart all over again, he did not like being _broken_.

No time had passed at all for him but when he regained an awareness beyond the tension in his body and the pounding of heartbeat, he was sitting on the front steps with Foggy stroking his back, and it was very cold and very hard to breathe. “It’s okay,” Foggy said, and this was not the first time he had said it, just the first time Matt had processed it, and he wanted to hit something, or break his cane with his own hands because that was how mad at himself he was.

“No.” It was not going to be okay, unless he made it so. Getting to his feet was not easy. They were made of jelly, and it took a couple tries, and fighting Foggy’s insistence that he stay down. By the time he was standing he really did need his cane. His focus was so off his spacial awareness was almost zero, and he needed the tapping sound to find the path he had previously memorized, but he knew that scent and he could follow it for miles maybe, if he tried. This time, he only had to make it to the parking lot. He was still breathing heavy and his hands were shaking but he had it under control. “Mr. Rogers.” He really wasn’t entirely aware of where the others were. It was like walking through a fog.

“We don’t have to – “

“We do,” he said, trying not to sound angry, knowing it might be misconstrued as directed at someone other than himself. He heard Foggy behind him. “Give us a minute.” He ignored Foggy’s pleas until he went away, and the other heartbeats also stepped away, and it was just him and Steve Rogers.

Damn, that guy was tall. He had at least half a foot on him. He was bigger in other ways, more muscled, with the confidence and steadiness in his stance of a soldier, who barely betrayed any of his anxiety, even with Matt’s senses. He was supposed to have heightened senses, too. Did he hear Matt’s heartbeat? Did he know how much Matt was sweating under his layers of clothing? He was certainly patient. He didn’t make the first move, and Matt took the time to get his breathing under control. Both hands cramped around his cane, held protectively in front of him. “I – I know how we met.”

“You weren’t yourself.”

Such a strange phrase, once you picked it apart. _But I was and that’s the problem_. This wasn’t a point to argue about with him. “I’m sorry.”

“If I say you don’t have to be, are you going to believe it?” Rogers spoke with so much authority in such a mild, humble voice. Matt was envious of him. It was less glorified than the radio show, so much more real. That shouldn’t have been any surprise but it still was.

“I won – I can try.” He forced a little smile to his face. “I didn’t know who you were. I only had scent.” And he wanted to say taste, but that would come out wrong. Vibranium. That’s what that chunk of metal must have been.

“Would it have made any difference?”

He didn’t have to search for an answer to that one. “No.” He knew Rogers was staring at him. Probably not impolitely – people just stared at him because they could, and it was actually a relief to some people, to not have to worry about getting caught doing it.

“Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to do something like this,” Steve said. “Fortunately I can take a beating.”

“I’m not?”

Steve sighed. “You’re the first to say he was sorry.”

There was a lot of pain behind that confession. “Thanks.” Matt had to respect that. “I want to help with the investigation. I don – I don’t think I can offer much, but I can try.”

Steve nodded. “Okay. Just so you know, sometimes it’s harder to walk away than continue fighting.”

“You’re better than the radio show version.”

He knows Steve is smiling when he says, “I was kinda hoping I would be.”

*******************************

They gathered around the table in Matt’s room. There was no need to go over how they found him. Not too much detail could actually be gleaned from that. All of the Japanese nationals and Somali pirates had been accounted for.

“Our current theory is that it was rogue or former members of the Hand,” Natasha (Black Widow, right?) said.

“I actually don’t know who that is.”

“Ninja group. Buying up all that real estate in Hell’s Kitchen. You fought them with Stick.”

“Oh.” He listened to Foggy’s heartbeat, which didn’t seem all that alarmed, so they must have put it together that he was Daredevil and Foggy was okay with that. There was no use denying it now. Besides, it all seemed so distant. “Yes, I was never told their name. Stick said he was at war with them. I was going to be a soldier, but he didn’t finish my training.”

“Which I’m grateful for,” Foggy said. Foggy had some strong feelings about Stick, from the sound of his voice. And he hadn’t even met him.

“Stick is head of the Chaste,” she went on. “We only know about half a dozen members, but they’re probably double that amount. They’re more exclusive. Their entire mission is to stop the Hand from doing whatever it’s trying to do.” She added, “This isn’t exactly common knowledge. It wasn’t in the leaked SHIELD files because they mostly fight each other, so the directors feel it’s not their concern. To be fair, we can’t get involved in anything.”

“Then how do you know about it?”

“From my days before SHIELD,” was all she had to say to that. Well, he supposed he could just read up on her on the internet. She was a Russian spy or something.

“We had a run in with Stick while we were tracking down members of the Hand,” Clint (the bow and arrow guy) explained.

Matt’s jaw clenched. It brought up emotions he wasn’t expecting to deal with, but he had to sort that out later. This conversation was hard enough. “I take it he doesn’t send his regards.”

“He claimed his mission had nothing to do with you and that you should stop thinking you’re special,” Natasha said.

Matt chuckled. “That does sound like Stick.”

“We offered to share resources,” Clint said. “He wasn’t interested.”

“Yeah. He’s an asshole.” It felt so good to laugh about it, and the fact that he could laugh about it. “In New York, we didn’t end on good terms. He knows I want nothing to do with him.” That wasn’t exactly true, but his feelings on Stick were too complicated for a single meeting, nor did he particularly want to share. “He sort of said he wants nothing to do with me, but Stick is able to lie to me, so I really don’t know. He promised not to kill anyone but his real mission was to kill someone. I only succeeded in stopping him the first time, if you’re wondering what we fought about.” As much as he was focused on that part of his past, it tickled something in his brain. Something that did not want to be tickled. “Wait.” Everyone took his orders very seriously. There was almost total silence in the room, from their perspective. “There’s something. I remember something.” It was all haze and faint voices. It must have been very early on in that missing year, when he still was listening to people. “Something about Black Sky.”

“What’s Black Sky?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know. Stick said it was a weapon. They were bringing it into New York and he wanted my help destroying it. I thought it was a bomb or a laser, but it wasn’t. It was a kid. Eleven, maybe twelve years old, but they treated him like he was a monster. That was who Stick tried to kill. He succeeded later, when I wasn’t there. I don’t think he considered it to be human, but it was _definitely_ a kid.”

“Stick murdered a little kid?” Foggy was liking Stick less and less, even if he had “taught Matt kung fu.”

“Yeah. I don’t think it was his first time at this, either. So I was pretty mad at him.” Matt swallowed. “But I heard the words ‘Black Sky’ a couple times. I was too drugged to do anything about it, though.” He looked in the general direction of Natasha. “What is it? Some government project?”

“I don’t actually know,” she said, inconveniently. She sounded a little embarrassed. “The term used to get dropped now and then in the circles of people who followed the Hand, but only that it was something big and rare. There was an open offer floating around in the 80’s for a million dollars to anyone who could locate one, but there weren’t any details offered. I didn’t know anyone who was even trying for it.”

Matt didn’t like the memories he had stirred up. They didn’t offer any more details. A man and a woman talking, a third person in the room ... that wasn’t enough to go on. “I’m sorry. I don’t have anything else.”

“It’s not your fault that they didn’t tell you their identities or plans,” Steve pointed out. “Usually if they do it means they’re about to kill you.”

His life, when he put it in that perspective, was really rather ridiculous. At least the Avengers kept things light. They were rather ridiculous themselves. “Where do we go from here?”

“Whoever it was, they’re holed up somewhere,” Natasha said. “Stick hasn’t found them yet and neither have we. I’ll try to establish some kind of contact with the Hand. They’re very serious about discipline and operating procedures, so this either came from the top or it was someone stepping out of place and they don’t have a lot of tolerance for that. They might be worth talking to, and since they’re so close to the Tower – “

“Why are they in New York?” Foggy asked. “They’re a bunch of ninjas, right? But they worked with Fisk.”

“They were buying property,” Matt said. He remembered the blue prints. “They wanted buildings. At the time, I didn’t think too much about it. The Chinese were smuggling drugs and the Russians were selling it, but Nobu died before I could ask him about it.”

“Acquiring Manhattan real estate is not exactly a bad investment,” Natasha said. “A lot of foreigners stash their money in an apartment in case their currency falls out or to avoid their taxes. But it is suspicious. We’ll keep an eye on it.”

“But they’re probably still out there,” Foggy said. “The people who did this.”

“Don’t be offended,” Natasha said to Matt, “but if they’re as smart as they seem, they’ve probably chalked you up as being an unrecoverable asset, especially if they’re on the run.”

“I’m not offended.” He was just relieved, but Foggy was agitated.

Steve must have sensed it, too. He did seem very perceptive. “We’re not lowering any security measures until we find these guys.”

Matt knew about the tracking device in his emergency bracelet (it had a strange weight) and the hidden cameras around the entrances to the monastery (they hummed), but he hadn’t complained about the blatant violation of his privacy, if only because it made Foggy sleep better at night. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for us.” Because it was really _them_ , him and Foggy. They could have cut Foggy out of it or tried to go around him, but they didn’t. “I’m sorry I don’t have more.”

“Nobody can hide forever,” Natasha assured him. She sounded particularly knowledgeable in this area. “We’ll find them.”

Thankfully she didn’t add, _or Stick will_.


	9. A Good Catholic Boy

1 Year Earlier

His mouth tasted like cotton. It was so parched he was surprised he could taste anything at all, overfocused as he was on the cracks in his tongue that were forming from dryness to the point of being painful. Or maybe he was hyperaware because he couldn’t feel much of the rest of his body or beyond it.

 _Get up_.

He wasn’t sure if it was his voice or Stick’s. Didn’t really matter, he supposed. He always got up. But this time – this time, no amount of willpower could so much as sit him up. He could raise his left arm a few inches off the sheet before it became too heavy. So. That was something.

He tried – he was fairly sure he’d tried this many times before, but it didn’t compute – to take stock of his situation. He didn’t open his eyes. Better to play possum. The only reason he kept them open at all was a carefully-nurtured instinct. They told him after the accident that some blind people kept their eyes permanently shut, particularly if they were born that way, to the point where they lost any sense of what their eyelids were doing and had trouble opening them even if they wanted to. Matt didn’t want that to happen to him. He didn’t want to let any part of his body lapse and become useless. His body was his to control, even the parts that didn’t work right.

Except for right now, when he didn’t know much about it, much less control it. He took a deep breath and careful stock of himself. He wasn’t injured, not as far as he could tell. He was on a rolling cot. He wasn’t tied down. _He wasn’t even tied down_. That was how confident his attackers were. They had already made a major mistake. It gave him hope for more windows of opportunity.

The only thing touching his body other than itchy cotton scrubs and bedsheets was an IV in his right arm, which was secured to the cot, but only to keep it in place. It was nothing he couldn’t unbuckle. He felt liquid in his veins but smelled nothing. It was probably sugar water and a drug he couldn’t identify. No strong hospital smells, just the peroxide from where they’d cleaned his arm for the injection, and adhesives from the bandaids from previous sites.

Previous sites. How long had he been here? They were keeping him alive, which was a good sign as much as a bad one. It meant this wasn’t unplanned. It wasn’t a random mugger, or vengeful criminal, or some mob guys who had gotten in over their heads and weren’t sure what to do with him but couldn’t face the gravity of killing him. An IV to keep him hydrated, some paralytic drug – that was equipment which one didn’t come by easily or get in a pharmacy run. They hadn’t really hurt him, either. He couldn’t remember how or when he was picked up, whether he was in the suit or not. Probably tranquilizers. No headshots that would still hurt. Not a scratch on him, as far as he could tell.

So, professionals. In for the long haul. A very bad sign. But they would make mistakes over time. Everybody did. Their resolve would weaken. A ransom wouldn’t be paid – who would be able to afford it? – and he would become more expensive than he was worth. Worst-case, they killed him, dumped the body somewhere, moved on. It was useless for him to speculate about that. He needed to focus on staying alive, figuring out where he was, what his captors weaknesses were, how to exploit them.

He also had a beard. He could feel it, hear the noise of air running through it when he breathed out through his nose. Another bad sign. He was fairly well-shaven before this, so a considerable beard meant ... at least a week. If he felt it he could tell more, but he couldn’t will either arm into movement. He wondered, pointlessly, what he looked like.

Had he contacted someone beforehand? Was there time for that? Had he left a message? Called out? Would the police have any leads?

All speculation. Useless. Time to focus.

The room around him was all ... mushy. No hard surfaces that he could find. No sunlight, probably no window. Fluorescent paneling. Was he sure he wasn’t just in a hospital? Yes. A hospital would have noises. Even if his ability to focus on them was bad and he couldn’t make sense of them or pick them apart, he would still hear them. Hospitals were never quiet and always smelled of drugs and death. This place smelled like nothing in particular. A room. Brick walls. Cement floor. A table to the right of him. Okay, he was getting somewhere, but unbearably slowly. In the distance, heartbeats. He didn’t know how many. Not a lot, not the amount of an average street in Manhattan. He was in another borough or he was outside the city. He ruled out islands or coastal neighborhoods. No smell from the dirty water of the Hudson Bay, no water lapping in the distance, no sense of sounds stretching out across the water in the distinct way they did that.

So: kidnapped, drugged, transported to somewhere remote, carefully kept alive and unharmed. Yeah. He was in a lot of trouble.

 _Get up get up get up get up get UP ALREADY_ –

“You can open your eyes. I know you’re not sleeping.”

The accept was Japanese. Not very heavy. Been in the States for a while. Matt figured this out so quickly because he remembered it; he remembered this guy. Not who he was, but he was not unfamiliar with the voice.

Matt opened his eyes. He didn’t know why. He should have kept them closed, not admitted defeat, not given an inch. But this routine was all ... familiar.

There were other people talking. Nearby. It was nonsense talk – a foreign language, he belatedly realized, but his brain was moving too slow to distinguish the sounds and identify it.

“You can speak English,” the man said to the others. Matt took a deep breath. Scents: woman and man. Expensively dressed. Expensive perfume. Expensive aftershave.

“Can he hear us?” It was the woman. Different accent, still Asian. Not quite the same ... Chinese?

“Probably, but it doesn’t matter.” The first man clamped his hand down on Matt’s shoulder. He did not like the feeling. The man was wearing latex gloves. “He can’t make long-term memories. We’ve had the same conversation five times.”

Damnit. He did not want his suspicions confirmed. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Haven’t we, Mr. Murdock?” The man – doctor? – was definitely talking to him. Knew his name. This was getting worse all the time. Matt wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, but all he managed with a mumbled groan, too slurred to be intelligible. “Though our conversations were a little one-sided.” The doctor looked away from him. “I lowered the dose an hour ago. He’ll be a bit more lucid in a few minutes if you need him to talk.”

“I suspect he cannot tell us anything,” said the second man. This time Matt got it on the first try: Japanese man, fluent but very heavy accent. Tense, maybe a little afraid? His stance was battle-ready even if he was trying to seem casual. He wasn’t afraid of a fight but he was afraid of Matt. “This one never finished his training.”

Shit, what were they talking about? It sounded like they were way too on-the-money, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of confirming it. His toes were starting to tingle – that was a good sign, right? His head felt clearer, if still impossibly muddled. If he could concentrate, he could get a lot more information, and hopefully hold on to it this time.

They were talking again. A little English, a little what he was pretty sure was Japanese. Was this Nobu’s group? He supposed he shouldn’t just _assume_ that Japanese people were ninjas out to kill him, but it would make a lot of sense.

Another man entered. Matt could smell old age: flabby skin, heavy natural odors, scratchy clothing that had aged with him. They made way for him, and he sucked in a huge breath at whatever he was looking at. “You told me he was a kid!”

“We lied,” the woman said. Ah, yes, now he knew. Her English was in a Hong Kong accent. He recognized it from doing research in Chinatown for a course on immigration law. Probably grew up speaking Cantonese. Her voice was more confident than the others. “We knew you wouldn’t come otherwise.”

The old man grabbed Matt’s forehead and held his eyes open, then released them. “This is one of Izo’s.”

“He was dropped,” the woman said, seeking to assure the old man. “No one knows why. He’s harmless.”

“You’re a very foolish woman,” the old man said. “They’re never harmless.”

“We paid you,” the woman reminded him, “and we’re not here to argue about it.”

There was some more talk in Japanese. The old man was very resistant to whatever they were proposing. He seemed to be putting up a bit of a fight. Good for him. Possibly good for Matt.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the conversation ended. The doctor unhooked his IV line from the pole and the two younger men pulled him up and set him on his knees on the floor. He couldn’t believe how heavy he’d suddenly become, as if his limbs had been replaced with cement. He would fall the moment they released his shoulders. He couldn’t even properly hold his head up.

He could probably wrestle them. Go for the doctor first, he seemed weaker. Twist his arm. The other guy would react, but defensively, and that would buy Matt a little time to roll away and get to his feet. That was presuming that whatever was making him heavy and slow stopped doing that, which was wishful thinking. He could barely will his fingers to move.

The old man was standing in front of him. He put one leathery hand on his chest, pulling down the fabric so he could place his whole palm over skin, with his thumb digging into the very bottom of Matt’s trachea. The other hand went on his head, one gnarled thumb pressed into his forehead, just below the hairline. The man was a smoker with heavy callouses. His skin under his clothing was heavily tattooed, to the point where the smell of ink would never fully fade, and he used off-brand deodorant.

“Hold still,” the man commanded in English, and Matt lost any semblance of a sense of what was going around outside his body as he was totally enveloped by what was going on _inside_.

The old man was on fire. No, not his skin, inside him was a flame, not red as Matt imagined it but another set of reds, yellows, and blues that he had never seen before but flickered like fire. Or had he forgotten what color looked like? If so, why was he seeing it now? _How_ was he seeing it now? He wasn’t using his eyes – his head was tilted up and they were closed again. But he could see the inner fire, burning continuously, and he could see it build and build and spread to his own body like it was filled with nothing but oxygen for the fire to consume.

He knew he would never be able to describe what it was liked to be touched from the inside, through pathways he didn’t know he had. It was violating but it wasn’t ... the old man wasn’t trying to hurt him. He was just looking, like a doctor who would inspect a patient, and even though it felt awful there was something calmly methodical about it, like he was only doing his job and this was necessary.

Matt wondered what he was looking for. Also, he wanted him gone. _Get out get out get out_ -

The old man did leave, rather apologetically, but he left his fire in there, and Matt wanted nothing but to expel it clear his body – and suddenly there was fire, real fire, in every direction, shooting out of his limbs and he was breathing fire at the people in front of him. The force of it all brought him to his feet, and for a moment he was tossing and spitting fire in every possible direction around him, which was impossible –

And then it was all gone, and he hit the floor, his body completely leaden. He could taste ash and smell smoke – the cot was on fire – and the others were a good distance away, but he wasted yet another chance for escape in being so completely exhausted. With no fire, there was only darkness. With his other senses fading, he felt a momentary panic that they would not come back as he was being pulled away.

“I told you,” the old man shouted at the others. “Black Sky is dangerous. You should let – “

Matt never found out what they should let, exactly, as his body pulled him out of consciousness.

*******************************

Present Day

Matt was used to the idea of nightmares. He knew all about waking up in a sweat, barely able to breathe, causing Benedictus to leap off the bed. He was familiar with stumbling to the bathroom after he regained his sense of direction to wash his face, and later to lay on the cold tile and count backwards from thirty over and over again until it worked. But the nightmares themselves – those he would never get used to, and the rate of his heartbeat as it pounded against his chest would shock him every time. At least he usually managed without waking the monks, though he had a few trips and falls that led to bruises and it felt weirdly nice to say without lying, “No, I just tripped and fell. I’m a blind guy. It happens.”

It was the only reason he continued to take those little pills that promised to make him numb. Otherwise he was worried he wouldn’t sleep at all.

After Mass and breakfast he went outside. It was starting to warm up, particularly in the sun, and he liked the way the fresh air felt in his throat, even when it burned him with cold. He could hear the melting of snow even if he couldn’t see it. It sounded like a thunderous waterfall on sunny days. The ground that was bare was always wet from it. He could make out the shape of the trees better than when they were perpetually blanketed by sound-dampening snow and ice. There were paths out into the woods, one leading to a currently-defunct campsite, the other to the outskirts of what could poorly be called the nearby town. Most of them were dirt, but the one that looped around the monastery was paved with slightly mismatched stones and his cane made the appropriate sound when it struck each piece.

Brother Samuel was chopping wood. He was younger than most of the monks, and more muscled, which was maintained by having some of the most physically taxing of the chores. Matt helped out as he could, but he wasn’t good with cutting weapons, or he might even be too good, and he didn’t want to explain why that would be. He liked the sound of splintering wood, perhaps the most rustic of all sounds, and he was willing to sit out in the cold when no one else was, so Brother Samuel was happy for the company.

“Who keeps knocking over my wood pile?” Brother Samuel said in exasperation. He often had to restack it against the shed, where it would dry under the tarp before going inside.

“There’s a bear,” Matt said. “Actually there’s two of them now. They eat out of the compost heap.”

“Gregory thinks it’s the deer.”

“It’s not. There’s some deer, but there’s two bears. They come around about one in the morning.” He added, “I thought they were supposed to be hibernating.”

“Not a heavy sleeper, are you?” He was polite in not mentioning all of the times they’d found him in the midst of a panic attack, having toppled or destroyed something in his room and woken half of them, who then woke the other half. He was nice that way.

“My hearing is, uh, pretty sharp.” He really felt guilty lying to a monk. “You lose one sense, the others compensate.”

“I thought that was a myth.”

“It’s different for everybody,” Matt said. “Let’s just say that if you guys knew how well I could hear, you’d probably kick me out. And also that it’s good I learned to filter conversations.”

Samuel laughed. He had a big laugh. He was a big guy, though Matt suspected he’d never exactly been small. “You’re not listening to our confessions, are you?”

“I used to do that as a kid,” he said, not sure why he was admitting this. “I lived in an orphanage and everyone thought I was incapable of regular activities so I had a lot of spare time. After a while it just got repetitive, so I stopped.”

Fortunately, Samuel found this less scandalous and more hilarious. “Is that when you decided not to become a priest?”

“No. That dream died when Wendy Schuller kissed me in the cafeteria. Wait, how did you know I wanted to be a priest?”

“Every good Catholic boy wants to be one at some point. Before life happens to them.”

“What makes you think I was a good Catholic boy?”

“When you first came here, you barely did anything of your own power,” Samuel said. “We had to get you out of bed, walk you around, and feed you. The first thing I saw you do to indicate you knew where you were was cross yourself when you walked past the altar. That habit’s hard to break, isn’t it?”

Matt bit his lip. He didn’t entirely remember his first days at the monastery. At some point he started knowing everything, and feeling like he’d learned it earlier, but he wasn’t sure when that had occurred. “Did they tell you – what did they tell you, when they said I was coming?”

“The abbot said you needed help, and we voted on it. We didn’t know anything beyond your physical needs, except that you were overcoming some traumatic experience.” Samuel added, “He didn’t say it, but it was something you haven’t forgiven yourself for.”

Matt’s grip tightened around his cane. “How do you know?”

Samuel went back to stacking wood, as if it were the most casual conversation in the world. “You haven’t taken Communion, which probably means you haven’t confessed. You just told me you know how boring confession can be, how we get worked up over the most minor of sins. So, what am I to think?”

He resisted the urge to bolt, and confirm everything Brother Samuel was saying. But he also resisted the urge to tell an outright lie. “... I can’t get in the box. It reminds me of something I don’t want to remember.”

“You’re supposed to feel claustrophobic. G-d judgement surrounds you. But to feel G-d’s judgment is also to feel His mercy, and that, He wants you to feel. You think you can’t be forgiven?”

The memories float up to the surface – scattered, mostly nonsensical – and Matt winced. “Not for this.”

“Young people, always thinking they’re reinventing the wheel. You think you’re the only one who’s ever committed a mortal sin before?”

Matt thought a long time about answering. Samuel’s voice was gentle, but the undertone wasn’t. “You used to be a soldier.”

“Now I get to say, ‘How did you know?’ Aside from the inclination for tree-related violence.”

“Your stance,” he said. “The way you walk. The way you breathe before you take a swing. It’s too deliberate. There’s training that gets hammered into you, and it stays there.”

Samuel took a deep breath, mostly because of the physical exertion required for his chosen labor. “That is a bit eerie.” He hesitated, then softened his voice again. “But you’re not wrong. I served in the Gulf War. Artillery.” Another pause. “It wasn’t that I killed people for my country. I did what I thought was necessary. What I couldn’t forgive myself for was how much I enjoyed it.”

A shiver ran up Matt’s back, and not because he was imagining Brother Samuel shooting Iraq soldiers with glee. “I don’t really remember how I felt about it.”

“You can’t truly commit a mortal sin without having full knowledge of the act and its repercussions. But even if you were to do so, a perfect act of contrition is what’s necessary for forgiveness.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“You’re being hard on yourself,” the monk said, “and that’s understandable. To attain a state of Grace you must let yourself feel G-d’s infinite mercy.”

They all made it sound so simple. He stood. “I would have loved to have felt it last year, but He didn’t seem to be around.”

Whatever words Brother Samuel had to add to that, they were drowned out by the furious tapping of Matt’s cane against the stone work as he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo ... assuming everyone doesn't die in this fic, would you guys be interested in a sequel?


	10. From Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for torture. Like, a lot of it, mostly sensory deprivation.

1 Year Earlier

Matt wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but he woke up in Hell.

All of his senses but taste were constricted, and that one couldn’t provide him with much, alternating between the steel bit to hold his tongue down and the blood from cuts when he scratched his tongue against it, eager for a new taste. He drifted in and out, between hyperventilating and exhaustion, and some painful mix of the two. He could not keep his breathing to a count. He could not focus.

When he was calm, though, in the moments before waking again and the panic that came with realizing where he was, he could reach out a little more. The chemicals under his nose had dried, or been diluted by sweat, and he could get faint odors of exposed brick and heavy dirt. He had that and pain as the only two things to remind him that he was alive at all.

With no sense of time, or possible ways to keep it, he could only track the hours (days?) by his hunger and thirst, both of which were growing. How could it be possible for something to make him drowsy and anxious at the same time? Presuming (and he really was guessing here) that he was still alive and in his body, why would someone leave him like this, only to let him die? Surely the meaning of his slow, agonizing death would have been explained to him?

He must have been losing what little sense he had of the world around him, because when he picked his head up from another probable black-out he could move his arms and legs. The cage he had been in was opened and the gloves were off. How long had he been laying there, oblivious to his newfound freedom?

He scrambled for more sensations. He wiped the chemicals from his nose and his fingers caught his beard. Way too long. Way, way too long. He’d never grown it this long, so he didn’t know what it meant. His skin was grimy from layers of dried sweat and blood. He untied the muzzle and his teeth felt weird when they came together. His jaw was sore, but everything was sore, and his legs weren’t as responsive as he wanted them to be. He kneeled, slowly rising until he hit his head on the top (metal, not very strong) of the cage. It rattled as he pulled himself out onto the cool dirt floor. It wasn’t sturdy enough for a human; it was an animal cage. He tried not to think about that. He shoved dirt in his mouth instead. A rather stupid idea in other circumstances, but he could taste again and it took him time to process all the flavors. He was somewhere in the Tri-State area, probably New Jersey. There was sewage runoff and gasoline, and not enough pesticides to indicate farmland, but someone had been out killed ragweed within a mile radius. Some cigarette butts, very old, probably not relevant, and the faint taste of rubber, the kind left by heavy truck tires. Probably an industrial area, then. Not in much use, not from the lack of heartbeats in the distance. There were two in the building he was in, one of them standing still, the other pacing. Both too far away for other information. With the earplugs out he could hear birds in the distance, too varied and too many for a city. They were somewhere rural or abandoned industrial, probably the latter.

He tried to stand but failed, and reminded himself that he didn’t know when the last time he’d stood was and his legs had been asleep for hours or days. He had to crawl, but he could hear blood pumping again and he was encouraged. If he fell asleep right here, his ears full of sounds and his noise full of smells, it would be rather nice, even if most of them were disgusting.

Matt was embarrassed that it took so much time for him to find the food. At the end of the room, right outside the heavy metal door, was a large bottle of water and a dish of food. He drank half the water without taking a second breath and turned to the pile of mush. It was a mix of highly processed protein and carbs, something he would find barely edible in any other circumstance. It even smelled wrong, and that was the only thing that stopped him from shoveling it down his throat as fast as he could. He took only a bite, letting it simmer in his mouth. Chemicals, mostly. A lot of high fructose corn syrup, food coloring (red #4), rehydrated and dehydrated powders, vegetable oil, artificial flavors, and something else – something that shouldn’t have been in there. It had been mixed in after the food was prepared.

The food was drugged. He couldn’t take this as a huge surprise, though he wasn’t sure why anyone would feel the need to drug him, or why they wouldn’t do it themselves. His captors hadn’t been hesitant about that before. After a single swallow, he tossed the bowl against the wall as hard as he could.

The shock came so hard and fast he wasn’t sure where it originated. No one was there, no one was touching him, but he felt as if he’d been hit by an electric baton. Over the crackle of electricity, he couldn’t hear himself scream until it died down, and he reached for his neck, the source of the shooting pain in his body, and found a leather collar. It was wired and secured with a padlock that hung on the back of his neck. If he had tools, he might be able to pick it, but the tiny singe he felt just touching it warned him that it might be a bad idea.

Then: “ _Eat._ ”

The voice might have been human at some point, but it was so heavily modulated it was impossible to tell if it was a man, a woman, or just a good piece of text-to-speech software. The transmitter came from the base of the collar.

Matt paused, kneeling on the ground, trying to track the two heartbeats he could find, but they were two distant, and neither person was speaking. No help from that end. And his stomach was growling, especially now that his whole digestive system was energized by the promise of food. He closed his eyes and tried to focus, bracing himself for what was to come.

Another order, in the same tone: “ _Eat_.”

And then came the pain he was bracing himself for, and all the tension made it worse as electricity stunned his system and turned his body into a bed of needles, working their way from the inside out. He tried not to scream but it was impossible. He rolled over, flailing wildly for the ground, kicking over the cage as he did so, but no, not giving in, never giving in –

And then the pain was gone, and everything hurt. Breathing hurt but he still couldn’t do it fast enough. He smelled his own singed hair. He breathed it in through his nose. He was shaking too hard to get a proper grip on anything but he tried to hold his sides anyway. “Why – “

“ _No talking_ ,” the voice said. “ _Eat_.”

He thought he could adjust to the flow of pain, use it focus like he did with bruises and cuts and even broken bones, but the sparks flooded his brain. He lost all sense of anything outside of his body, and the agony filling it, and his molars hurt, and his fillings from high school hurt, but he wouldn’t give in, not until –

Blackness again. Not for long, though. A tiny jolt was enough to wake him. His limbs were cramped into a fetal position. He heard and tasted nothing, felt nothing, despite there being no physical barriers.

“ _Eat_.”

He was no longer starving. In actuality he was quite nauseous, and eating was the furthest thing from his mind, which was still trying to concentrate on breathing. How much could his racing heart take of this? Did they know how much could kill him? More importantly, could he sit there and let himself be killed?

 _No, I need to survive_. That was the end goal: survival. It had to be. There was no point in thinking of escape or freedom or ever seeing another human being again (figuratively) if he kept letting himself be beaten down. His body didn’t want to go, but pain could provide a lot of inspiration, and he dragged himself to the food bowl, and scooped up what was left in it. It felt awful to swallow, not just because of the taste (too many preservatives, tons of MSG) but because of what eating it meant.

He told himself that giving up and choosing to survive were two different things, but he wasn’t so sure.

*******************************

This process was repeated. From his hunger levels, it was at least twice a day, made harder to tell by whatever it was drugged with. He always woke up nauseous, and if he was restrained again, it was hard not to throw up in his mouth. His head was too heavy and thoughts floated around in front of his eyes. He thought he saw colors – not just the strange fire inside that man (how long ago was that? What the man still here? Why had he tried to help him? Had that really been what he was trying to do, or was that just the way Matt interpreted it?) but reds, oranges, blues, as he remembered them, sometimes in bolts of color and sometimes filling up all of his false vision. It wasn’t entirely unusual for formerly-sighted people to have visual hallucinations – he forgot the fancy term for it now – but they were rare for him, and he liked it that way. He didn’t like the prospect of color being dangled in front of him. His body would tingle and he felt removed from it, like he was hovering just above it. It was easier not to panic when he was drugged, but harder to focus. He felt he had a general sense of his surroundings – an empty brick room, except for the cage that he spent most of his time in, definitely underground and remote. He could only gather information when it was time, as the voice insisted, to _eat_. He would eat, he would taste chemicals that were wrong, and he would wake up restrained, his senses blocked again. He got better about not panicking. The drugs were probably making it easier. He fought it the first (what must have been) couple times, until the shock treatment was too much, and then he would reluctantly eat as little as possible, then face another wave of attacks and repeated orders in that ugly-sounding voice, not quite human and not quite robot, until he licked the damn bowl. But the drugs made the world soft, and he could sleep a little and even dream.

In his more lucid moments, when he could collect himself and not panic over his lack of stimuli by focusing on that he had (chemical smell, metal bit in his mouth, soft leather over his fingers, scratchy socks over his feet trapped in boots), he knew this was very bad. He knew they were breeding addiction. The fear of painful electric currents coursing through his body would override his thought process, which was falling away. He hadn’t made any progress on escaping or even gathering information to use to escape. If there was someone there, ever, he could glean so much from their presence, but there was no one. The bowl smelled of dishwashing liquid and the rubber from the glove used to handle it. The heavy door was always closed. When he could hear heartbeats, they were steady and boring, muted by distance. Two, sometimes three. Never more than that.

“Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy – “ His prayer became a high-pitched wail as a now-familiar sensation began at this throat and coursed through his body faster than he could breathe.

“ _No talking_.” The intonations of the voice were always the same. A recording. No inflection, no personality. Just orders.

Addiction became fact when they withheld his food. He wasn’t just hungry. He was antsy, unable to sleep, constantly trying to scratch himself to relieve the itching under his skin. He contemplated breaking his thumb to escape the cuffs, but he didn’t have the momentum to pull hard enough. Trying it hurt, but the pain felt good because it was a distraction. When he finally passed out and woke to find the cage open again, he scrambled out in record speed and shoveled food into his mouth without concern for taste (awful) or breathing. He didn’t care if it went down the wrong hole. He needed it. He needed the relief that came in waves as he rolled on his side and let it consume him. He was relieved. He was ... happy.

“ _Good_ ,” the voice said. “ _Good boy_.”

He did not like that but he wasn’t ready to argue. He knew what that meant. Anytime he spoke, even in the barest whisper, he would get a shock. When he slipped up he braced himself for it. Sometimes it woke him from sleep – how could he help if he was talking in his sleep? He wanted to be quiet. He wanted to be good. He wanted to be a good bo –

 _Oh shit_. Had he even really been trying to resist this programming? It was embarrassing how easily he fell into the proscribed routine, and only because he couldn’t handle a little pain? Stick would be disappointed. Stick would always be disappointed, but this was different. Stick treated him like shit, beat him into the ground, and taunted him for his weakness, but he still treated him like a _person_.

 _Pull it together, Murdock_. He laid against the floor and took deep, measured breathes. His whole body was tingling, but at the moment he was free of the cage and he could use all four of his senses. He brought everything in, from the faraway bird calls (probably early morning?) to the antiseptics in the food bowl and ground nearby were always coated in to hide any other scents. One heartbeat, two floors up, maybe a little faster than usual, probably watching him. He heard the camera in the corner of the room – machines never ran fully silent. He had the aftertaste of different chemical preservatives in his mouth. He could feel the cool earth, slightly damp, therefore not sealed off by the building’s foundation from the outside world. Maybe he could dig his way out?

He resisted the tug of the drugs. He wanted to savor this moment, to use it to his advantage. It was so hard to think in the cage. For all the time he spent meditating to shut the world out, being deliberately denied access to it was more terrifying than sensory overload. With nothing to process, his brain went to dark places. He couldn’t hold on to thoughts, ideas, or people. The things he needed most. G-d, what he wouldn’t give for just a human voice, even if it was only to mock him. For the first time in twenty years, he truly missed Stick.

 _Get up, you lazy son of a bitch_ , Stick would say. _You need help? You need your daddy? Grow the fuck up_.

Foggy would say – well, honestly, Foggy would freak out and seek out the nearest source of alcohol. Then he would probably cry, then blame Matt for getting himself into this, possibly not in that order. He would take him back to his apartment and not leave until Matt promised to never, ever go out as Daredevil again. It would be sweet.

Karen – Oh G-d, Karen. He had so many questions to answer but so many to ask. He wished he’d asked her about the morning drinking, about the gunpowder smell that night of the warehouse fire, about the way her heartrate jumped every time a car backfired or a timer went off. He knew she was already suffering from invisible demons. He didn’t want to be one of them, but he already was.

Claire ... Claire would draw her own conclusions. That he was dead. She wouldn’t be far off. Father Lantom would light a candle and pray for his soul.

He wondered if anyone else would really care. That realization was sadder than he expected it to be. With that despair settling in his chest and making it heavy, he fell asleep.

*******************************

He was awake a little bit more, out of the cage a little bit more. New words were added to his vocabulary, like “ _walk_ ” and “ _sit_ ” and “ _stay_.” Of course he put up a token resistance, but his body just couldn’t adjust to electric shocks. They didn’t make callouses form or create scarring that would lack nerve endings. And besides, he didn’t like being in the cage and he didn’t like how weak he had become. At first he could barely walk on his unused legs, but he made sure that didn’t last. He stripped off his socks and shoes and paced the room with bare feet so he could feel the ground beneath him and the soil between his toes. He inspected every inch of the walls without punishment from the voice, but he was reduced to a crippled heap of screaming flesh if he got too close to the door. It looked thick anyway. No visible hinges, no window, nothing he could break through. Unfamiliar outside sounds were rare – a car, a truck, a bird that was closer to the property than normal. There was never more than three heartbeats on the property, and they were never on the same floor as him, but every once in a while his clothing was changed to fresher rags and his beard was trimmed. He never remembered the human contact that must have come with it. They left a bucket of soapy water for him to wash up in. They made it clear what he was not allowed to do: leave any of his food uneaten, disobey any commands, and meditate. He was barely in a half-lotus position before he felt the hair on his neck rise in anticipation and the electric sensor being to hum. It was took a second to warm up, but he was very familiar with that particular second. He took a deep breath and tried not to tense up. He wanted the pain to flow through him and out. Maybe then he could manage it. He tried – again and again, until he blacked out, he tried – but the electricity always scrambled his brain.

Stick would yell at him if he was here, demand that he do better, to stop being such a pansy.

Matt wished Stick was there. He wished for any form of human contact, even from his captors. He needed to know that there were other living, breathing things in this world, and that he was not cut off from them entirely.

When he got his wish, it broke him.


	11. The Hound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: pretty severe ANIMAL ABUSE in this chapter. If you don't want that, skip it.

Chapter 11 – The Hound

“Do you mind if we just Skype next weekend?”

“Of course.” Matt was a little self-conscious about just how much time Foggy spent visiting him, for Foggy’s sake rather than his. It was a long drive and he made it every week that the roads were clear. “You don’t have to ask.” They had debated this before, but Foggy was adamant about it not being a hassle, and Matt didn’t exactly want to push him away. “You going somewhere?”

“Florida.” He added, “With Marci.”

“For a whole weekend?”

“Yeah. We’re back together.” Foggy was probably frowning. “I might have mentioned it, but it was back before you weren’t, you know, um – “ He didn’t want to say _listening_.

“Oh.” His brain couldn’t really process that. In the past, Foggy getting together with Marci had been different from wanting to do things with her outside of a bar or an apartment. It irritated him that there were things that happened in Foggy’s life that he hadn’t been able to share, or even know about. He wasn’t used to it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Marci. No, that wasn’t true. He was carefully neutral about her. They had crossed paths in law school via Foggy, of course, and rubbed each other the wrong way, but not in the usual way people went about doing that. Marci had good qualities. She was brilliant, determined, and brutally honest. She didn’t dismiss Matt for being blind, never treated him differently, and he appreciated that, he really did. But she did refer to him as “a pile of issues in a human suit” to Foggy (which Matt overheard, of course). Not that he could blame her for that. It wasn’t far from the truth. But between them was someone they both cared about, Marci more deeply than she would ever admit, so they made peace without saying the words required to do so. “Where you together when I was, um – “

“Initially. And she says _I_ have the commitment problems.” Foggy’s heart rate picked up; he was embarrassed. “Things kinda fell apart. All over the place. But she did get me into therapy. Sort of a parting gift.”

“And now you’re going on vacation?”

“I’m surprised she could get two vacation days in a row out of Sharpe.” After the pause, he explained, “She’s working for Sharpe and Associates. I don’t know who the associates are but Marci’s gunning to be one of them.”

“Rosalind Sharpe?” The name rang a bell. “The District Attorney?”

“Back in the day, yeah. Set so many internet harassment precedents we were citing her left and right in our new media class. She started her own firm. Supposed to be brutal. Don’t want to go up against her.”

“I think that would be a conflict of interest.” He waited, and listening to Foggy’s breathing from across the table. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“G-d damnit Matt – “

Matt put a finger to his lips, indicating the cross on the wall.

“ _Gosh dangit_ , Matt.” He sighed. A familiar type of deep breath. “They offered me a job.”

“Sharpe?”

“Indirectly, yes. Marci floated the offer. Not exactly the same as being partner in my own firm, but the pay would be better. I’d have to drop out of school, though. No time for writing journal articles as a junior associate. So of course I didn’t take it.” His body twitched nervously; he was working himself up to something. “I want you to know – no pressure here, none whatsoever – that I’m not taking your name off the door unless you tell me to.”

Matt gaped. He had thought about it in passing – he had lots of time to think – but he was more concerned with sleeping through the night, with reconnecting with all the people he’d left behind, and he knew he was doing a shitty job of it. He’d Skyped with Karen two awkward times, and only with Foggy’s help. He still hadn’t contacted Claire, just let Foggy pass a note on. He had a sense now, a real sense that Foggy’s relationship with Marci might mean something, which implied that they had _grown_ , and he hadn’t been there for that, or noticed from afar. He was at St. John’s to be removed from the world, but it wasn’t going to be permanent. That much he did know. “Thank you.”

“Offer for the strip-o-gram is still open.”

“Do they still do those?”

“The pricing online is surprisingly reasonable.”

“Foggy, I’m not going to become a monk.”

“You’re already living the life. Poverty, chastity, what’s the third?”

“Obedience,” he said. “Which is a bit of a problem.”

“You haven’t been Daredeviling up on the rooftops, fighting – what would you fight out here? Bears? Eagles? Tell you’re not in the bell tower punching bald eagles, Matt.”

Matt giggled. “I don’t want to punch anything. And harming a bald eagle is a felony. Why would you even think of that?”

“I don’t know a lot of other types of eagles,” Foggy confessed.

*******************************

As the weather changed, church attendance increased. There was the local crowd of oblates and regulars, not high in number, who had either introduced themselves to Matt or at least more or less knew who he was, and respected that he didn’t need help getting around, and also that it was rather useless to press a new handout into his hands. He did have a braille bible, but it was eighteen volumes long and therefore not that portable. He knew the service by heart. When it was time for the Eucharist, he made himself scarce. It was another thing people didn’t need to know about him.

The brewery was open for business on Saturdays, and the church also had a small gift and consignment shop for locals to offer handicraft goods. One of the monks sewed, another whittled, and there was a nearby organic market to draw crowds.

The people who came on the IPA beer tours were often loud and obnoxious hipsters, but the monks were so unerringly nice to them Matt couldn’t work up any frustration. The atmosphere just wasn’t fit for it. He was usually somewhere else, but it wasn’t a large property and there were very few other sounds to distract him.

There were two couples chatting it up in the parking lot over a newly-purchased six pack. This was clearly not their first stop; three of them were a little drunk and the other was the driver. She opened the side door for one of them, and out bounded a –

A dog. Matt didn’t really know dogs, but it was a big one, a happy, family dog, whose size was betrayed by its bark. Well-trained, its leash hanging loose, eager to greet its owner, probably slobbering with happiness –

And Matt ran. It took all of his energy to do that. In the opposite direction lay the forest, still deep with old snow, but new buds emerged and offered smells to guide him, though to be honest he wasn’t really using his senses to get a scope of anything but a way out. He wasn’t dressed for this kind of excursion, and his cane was long gone by the time realized that he didn’t know where he was, but his focus was so utterly gone he would have been unable to find the way without a patient guide and he had none. He was alone. That was the way he preferred it. Nothing could get to him, and more importantly, he couldn’t get to anything. His fists were so eager to find something to release the tension that he pounded them into the ground until they bled. He was pulling in too much cold air with his heavy breathing and he was getting dizzy.

His arms hurt and his legs hurt and his nose burned and suddenly he wasn’t cold anymore, he was warm, and he was sweating, and when he breathed in, the air pulled in the familiar smell of antiseptics. His clothes were gone, and his new clothing itched. A hospital gown. His mouth tasted bad, his skin smelled of other people, and he wanted to get away. He pulled out the IV and hurled his legs over the side of the bed. His fingers hurt when he pressed them against the safety railing. They were bandaged. He was wrapped in a scratchy blanket and heating pads fell out from under his armpits when he was upright.

Other heartbeats. Lots of them. Thirty? Forty? More than he was used to, racing in all the directions, or not moving at all. Several people were crying, others were bleeding, some doing both. A man in the next room was hacking up phlegm. He had throat cancer. He was dying. Maybe not today, but soon.

“Matthew.” The smell of dyed wool robes. The two tin medallions under them, clinking together. Brother Thomas was there. There were two other monks just outside. “How do you feel?”

Matt pushed himself off the bed. It was not a soft landing, but he grabbed onto Thomas and found him willing to keep him from falling. He didn’t expect his legs to be so week. “Foggy said ... no hospitals.”

“You’re in an emergency care center. It’s only temporary.” The therapist monk carefully pushed him back to the bed, but couldn’t succeed in getting him to sit on it. The pain in his extremities gave Matt a focal point. It gave him strength. “You were suffering from hypothermia. You have frostbite on your hands and feet. And on your nose. You almost lost some fingers. Fortunately the police had a rescue dog and they found you in time – “

“The dog.” He didn’t mean that dog, but he supposed it didn’t matter.

“Matthew, _please_ sit down.” Thomas was really pleading with him. “We’re going to get them to release you, but you need to rest until then.”

“I – okay.” He really didn’t want to upset this poor man further. He could stand a lot of pain in his own body, but the monk was old and his heart was racing. There were others, too, beyond the curtain and he smelled their apprehension. “ – I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. You don’t have to say anything. Just – please sit down.”

Thomas really was scared for him. Or had been scared for him. It occurred to Matt that he had no idea what time it was, or how long he had been in the woods, or even what transpired between then and now. Since he was Brother Thomas’s charge, that passage of time had probably been pretty scary. Matt didn’t know how long he’d been running, or anyone in the monastery who was capable of following him. For them to send out search dogs, police had to be called, they had to – He did want to sit down. He didn’t want to make other people’s suffering worse. That’s why he ran in the first place. “Okay.” He did want to sit down. He was very tired, and it was overwhelming his instincts to flee.

He was going to get shit from Foggy when he found out, if he didn’t know already. He was more worried about worrying Foggy than anything else. Foggy would see the bandages on his hands and across his face and not take, “No, I’m okay, really,” for an answer.

“Get some rest,” Brother Thomas said. It was as close to a command as he ever got. “We’ll check you out first thing in the morning. I promise.”

Matt was going to hold him to that.

*******************************

The most talking Matt did over the next few days was a Skype call with Foggy, trying to convince him not to drop everything and come. He eventually succeeded with Thomas’s help, for which he was very grateful.

The monk gave him time off from therapy. It was not good time. Matt’s fingers were wrapped in bandages, making reading impossible and typing difficult. He spent a lot of time zoning out to audiobooks, and less time than usual sleeping. He knew it was showing around his eyes. He didn’t look good, because people’s breaths hitched up when they saw him, even if they had been at the hospital and seen his condition before. He was rarely embarrassed about the way he looked to other people, but he didn’t like how it made them feel. The more they reached out to him, the more he pulled away. It was subtle but it was there. They had seen the monster, and what it could do to Matt. What he was willing and eager to do to himself.

Therapy was very awkward. They sat silently for a long time. Matt wondered if he could stall until Sext, when Thomas would have to leave.

Finally, an opening shot: “I didn’t know you were afraid of dogs.”

“I’m not.” That much was true. “I’m afraid of what I’ll do to them.”

“And what is that?”

Matt put his head down. He did not respond. He let his silence answer for him.

“I understand if you don’t feel ready to talk about this,” Thomas said, “but we can’t exactly ban dogs from the property.”

The skin under the bandages was moist and itchy, but if he scratched, it would hurt, and further damage the skin. He debated it anyway.

“Matthew,” the monk said, his voice gaining insistence, “if we hadn’t succeeding in finding you, you would have died of exposure. You’re not in a medical facility because there was a basic understanding that you were at least somewhat capable of caring for yourself. If this happens again – “

“I know.” He had to cut him off. He just had to. “I – I don’t know.”

“But you know what happened to you. Why you panicked.”

“Yes.”

Brother Thomas put both his arms on the desk and folded them. He was making it clear that he was willing to wait.

“Have you heard confessions?”

“Yes.” Thomas was not the abbey Confessor. “I was a priest before I was a Benedictine.”

“I know some of this is covered by HIPPA,” Matt said, “but can we, um – “

“Yes, we can use the seal of confession. But you understand that this isn’t the same as actually confessing?”

“I know,” he said. “I can’t yet. I can’t explain why, I just – I don’t know.”

Thomas’s voice softened. “Let’s focus on what you do know.”

*******************************

In the beginning, Matt had made an attempt to mark the passage of time by scratching the metal beneath him with his cuff. He had no way of marking days, but he put in a new slash mark for every meal, which he estimated to be about twice a day. Then the whole tray filled up, and he tried the brick wall, but he got a shock from that, and the voice said, “ _No_.”

So he just knew it had been too long. He hadn’t made progress on any kind of escape. He hadn’t learned anything about his captors. He hadn’t made contact with the outside world.

The outside world probably thought he was dead. That was a reasonable assumption.

He waited for them to make a mistake, to give him anything new to hold onto, but there was just nothing. Even though he was allowed out of the cage for longer and longer periods of time, he spent most of it with his back against the wall, thinking about nothing. The drugs that he was now so desperate for made him sluggish and there was nothing to keep his mind active. If he tried to do serious meditation, he would get a shock. If he tried to speak, he would get a shock. If he disobeyed an order – and even they were few and far between - he would get a shock. He could never build a resistance. He tried, many times, deliberately disobeying orders, but it ended the same way – he passed out, and over the next few meals the drugs would be heavier and he wouldn’t be capable of much.

All of this was too deliberate if they were going to leave him to die, so that only left one game plan. This was torture with a purpose. They wanted something from him, and they couldn’t get it while he was sane. On bad days (nights?), he tried to will the whole process to go faster. The sheer boredom was getting to him. And then they brought in the dog.

He didn’t hear it enter, of course. There was never any movement from the door when he was awake. So his first reaction to something licking his face was _defend, defend_ , and when he calmed down, _okay this is new_. He didn’t know the exact breed. There were lots of breeds, more and more every year, and he was only familiar with the breeds used for seeing eye dogs. It was fairly tall, maybe up to his waist, with a long, thin snout and long fur. Possibly a setter. Some kind of playful, happy dog, the kind that was good around kids, but big enough to make his presence known if he wanted to throw his weight around. It was cruel to have this kind of dog in the city, Matt had always thought. Most people had little dogs which made irritating yaps, always pulling at their leashes, too full of energy in such a small body, but they fit better into apartments. People asked him why he didn’t get a dog, as if (a) you could just get any old dog and train it to read stoplights, (b) service dogs were not animals who needed things like food, walks, and attention. When he walked past the dog parks in Riverside Park he heard barks full of frustration and unexpended energy. People looked at them and saw that they were cute (and he did remember dogs being cute), and they would forget about the other signals, like that a dog wasn’t walked enough, or didn’t like city noises, or was too shy around other dogs to have fun in that twenty-by-twenty pen but they put him in there anyway, or that they were horny, or hungry because they were fed food they didn’t like, or they just couldn’t match their natural instincts with their surrounding lifestyle. Not all dogs were unhappy, of course, but a lot of them were. His life was complicated enough without caring for an animal that didn’t choose to be there.

He didn’t have any of those anxieties now. This was a happy dog, happy to see him, and he was pretty happy just to hear a new heartbeat and the breathing of another living thing. He scratched his belly (it was a he, it smelled like a he) and wondered what color his fur was. If he had a name he responded to. At least one of them wasn’t wearing a collar.

There didn’t seem to be any rules about what he could and couldn’t do with the dog. He didn’t feed it any of his food, no matter how much it begged, because the food was drugged. There wasn’t a whole lot of room to play, but he could toss his empty water bottle and the dog would obediently fetch it. He wished he could say something do it, to see if it would respond to his voice. In the back of his mind, he knew to be on his guard, but he had nothing else to reach out for, and this dog happily reached back. He let his guard down because there was no guard left. His confinement had stripped him bare of everything but the smallest bit of self-awareness.

So when he woke to the voice commanding him with a single word - “ _Kill_ ” - he did everything in his power to resist, hoping he would die before he had to kill the dog, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. It could take a lot of electricity. He blacked out and it snapped him out of it, and his thoughts were increasingly fuzzy each time, but he didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to destroy the only good thing in his life, he wasn’t a bad person – he didn’t want to be a bad person.

But it felt so good when it all stopped. When he obeyed, and the only pain he felt was his knuckles against the body’s chest. He’d never killed an animal before. He didn’t really know how. He wanted to make it fast but he had enough trouble standing up on both feet, blocking out the dog’s surprised whines, and when he stepped on its throat that all stopped, and there was silence, and he was so, _so_ happy for that, and he crawled into his cage, and didn’t come out for a long time.

A new dog arrived. This time, he didn’t hesitate.

*******************************

Just as the trapped Matt had sobbed silently, afraid of what noise would bring, so did the Matt who was older, safely stashed away in a place of sanctuary and healing, who was just as scared. He cried until it hurt in his chest, and he was out of air, and his face and hands were soaked, and he had absolutely nothing left in him or he would have kept going.

“After that I just ...” He didn’t have words, but Thomas didn’t pry them out of him. The monk’s heartbeat steadied him. “I did whatever I was told. I didn’t stop to think about it. At some point I stopped ... I stopped feeling anything.” He swallowed. He felt sick. “I think I drank some of its blood. The dog. One of them. I don’t know why.”

“You were doing what you had to do to stay alive.” The therapist’s voice was firm, completely unwavering, like he really believed what he was saying, like he was drawing from experience. “That’s not a sin.”

“I don’t know why – I killed people. I know I did. I don’t know why I’m so damn upset about the _dogs_.” But he did know, because it was how they worked up to people.

“Do you still think about killing?”

“All the time.” He had no reason not to admit this. Thomas deserved to know. “It’s not whether I want to do it or not. I don’t. I never want to do it again. But I think about if I could, and how I would do it. My brain just goes there, and I can’t stop it.”

“When you were in a place that offered no choice,” Thomas carefully explained, “you did what you needed to do to survive. We will do whatever we can to preserve our own lives. It’s one of mankind’s most powerful instincts. That’s why those who give it up for a greater cause are sanctified and idolized. That’s why they are called martyrs. But if you had succeeded in overruling your sense of self-preservation, you would be dead now, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Obviously the L-rd had other plans for you. He wanted you to make it out of that place, and you did.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so,” Matt said, “sometimes G-d’s plans seem a little fucked up.”

The therapist didn’t scold him for swearing or blasphemy. “I know. It’s one of life’s great mysteries.”

“I’m mad at G-d, not life. How many Hail Marys am I supposed to say for that?” He wasn’t asking as if he was asking how to do penance. He was asking because he wanted Thomas to know the truth.

“I would be surprised if you weren’t,” Thomas said, because of course he knew the right thing to say. It was a little maddening. “I can’t tell you why you went through what you went through. No mortal man can presume to understand that. But I do know that you made it out, that you’re alive now, and that you have the chance to repent, and to be forgiven. You have the chance to feel good and to do good. Not everyone gets that chance, Matthew. So the question becomes: what are you going to do with it?”

Matt didn’t have an answer for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it through with me! Up next: At least something remotely lighter.


	12. Black Sky

The store in Koreatown was obviously a front for something. The inventory was scattered haphazardly about, a collection of knock-off goods that weren’t quite Chinese enough to be in Chinatown, oddly-sized sneakers laying open in their boxes, marijuana paraphernalia, and Hello Kitty merchandise. The teenager at the register was playing on his iPhone and looked genuinely worried that he might have to make a sale.

Nat didn’t waste any time. “Sota. Where is he?”

The young man shrugged. “Beats me.” He sounded halfway honest. At least he didn’t pretend he wasn’t familiar with the name.

“Hey man.” Clint was already at the end of his rope with this particular case. Steve would have been more ideal, but he was just too memorable, and he was also off taking down giant slugs in Afghanistan. “I don’t want to go through this today. So just tell us where grandpa is and we’ll be out of your hair.”

The cashier looked even more annoyed, but he did look up from his phone. “I’m Korean. He’s Japanese.”

“We didn’t say whose grandpa,” Nat said. “Do you want to get busted for the 17 ounces of weed behind the register? Because that’s possession with intent to sell, and this shop looks it could really appreciate some police attention.”

“It’s _medical_ ,” the kid said. “Whatever. Third floor. Probably.”

He didn’t bother to unlock the stairwell for them, but it wasn’t hard to force the door, nor did anyone notice. It was a mixed-use building, mostly Asian immigrants, with a few suspiciously-well-locked doors. The third floor had one main apartment, with no number or letter on the front.

“ _Akenasai!_ ” ( _Open Up!_ ) Natasha’s Japanese was a little rusty. She wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t asking someone to open a bottle instead.

They didn’t have long to wait. An ancient-looking man in a goatee opened the door and looked them both over. “I want to see Iron Man.”

“Yeah, we know. He’s really popular.” Natasha handed him a slip of paper with a symbol on it.

His demeanor didn’t change all that much, but he did say in his heavy accent, “We should talk.”

His home was filthy and there appeared to be several people making different uses out of the space, none of them being home, but in the corner of the living room was a cushioned square seat that could only be described as a throne. To the right, there was a tiny shrine. He relit the long incense sticks before sitting down, then reloaded his pipe, which stunk of weed. “For my arthritis.” Behind him was a wall scroll of Japanese calligraphy, with only a single recognizable character – the kanji for fire – beneath a big painting in abstract brush strokes that was some kind of sea creature, with a turtle body but a lion head. Sota didn’t offer them anything, in tea or in conversation.

Natasha looked at his fingers. He was missing half of each pinky finger. The thick shirt with long sleeves despite the blasting radiator was covering a full body of tattoos. “We need to give a message to the Hand.”

“’We’?”

“Interested parties.”

“You worked for Nazis,” he said. “Technically that means that I should want to help you. But I was too young for the draft.”

It was really good that they hadn’t brought Steve here, not that he was the type of guy to hold a grudge. “If you know us so well, then you know SHIELD’s had a recent change in leadership.”

He laughed. He was definitely a little stoned. “Governments are so small-minded. So, if you are working for yourselves, what message should I risk my life to pass on?”

“We want what Stick wants,” Natasha said, “but not his way. The Hand will care because they have no way of stopping him. If they had they would have done it already. They don’t want a war with the Chaste. It doesn’t benefit them.”

“The Chaste?” he giggled. “They want peace more than anything. Stick’s out of the Chaste. He’s on his own for this one.”

“Then who’s leading them?”

Sota shook his head. “Not important. What you obviously didn’t already know is that they kicked him out. Usurped his position. They felt he was spending too many resources on a personal project. He sent two of his best students in.” He eyed them knowingly. “They did not live to deliver the bad news.”

“So you have one man killing Hand members left and right, entirely on his own, and no one can stop him? Sounds like they do need help.”

Sota sucked on his pipe. “I’m retired. I can’t say what the Hand wants or doesn’t want. Or what they will offer. But they might be interested in the subject.” He looked away from them. “The people you are looking for are Takeru and Meifing. They went rogue a few years ago, but they still have plenty of contacts and influence. Takeru is Hand royalty, related to founding clan members. He’s also very wealthy. Meifing, his wife, is Chinese, but she was taken when she was young with her brother and raised by the hand. Twins. Stick killed her brother.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason Stick kills all those children,” he said. He didn’t sound angry about it. He was just stating a fact.

“So Meifing and Takeru are trying to get revenge?”

“No, that’s not their primary interest. At the moment, it’s hiding. No one knows where they are. That’s why they’re still alive. And the Hand has not been willing to hand them over to Stick – so far.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Clint was suspicious. “We haven’t offered you anything.”

Sota leaned back, his hands playing with his pipe. “I’m trying to right a wrong. You don’t think an old man like me isn’t concerned about good and bad karma? It’s a very pressing issue.”

Natasha did some quick thinking. “When you were in the Hand, you were the one who put out the offer for Black Sky. This is connected.”

The old man didn’t look overly pleased that she had this information. “You’re very good.” He did not seem like a man who often gave compliments. “Two years ago, Meifing called me and asked me for a consultation. Her brother had died because of Black Sky, and until that time I had raised the two of them. She said it was about another child, but she lied.”

“It was Murdock.”

He nodded. “I told them they didn’t know what they were doing. I told them to let him go. But I didn’t force the issue. I walked away. I was supposed to be neutral. Those were the conditions of my retirement.” He looked away, out the window above the Buddha statue. “Stick doesn’t care for me. The only reason he hasn’t come after me yet is because I’m friends with his teacher. But I wouldn’t be stupid enough to talk him out of it. Stick doesn’t see a path. He only sees a destination.” Sota refocused on them. “The Hand might offer to hand over Takeru and Meifing if Stick is willing to back down. He’ll be too stubborn to take it.”

It went unsaid who might be capable of talking Stick down.

“What is Black Sky?” Clint demanded.

Sota smiled. “A demon.”

“That’s it?”

“You need more?” Sota asked. “Have some free advice: don’t ever cross one.”

*******************************

While they waited on Sota to make contact with the Hand, there weren’t many leads to chase. Everyone was fleeing Stick’s path, and Takeru and Meifing were their Hand names, possibly unrelated to their real ones, or the names they were hiding under. Natasha was focusing on other projects when her phone buzzed. She was surprised to see the ID as Matt Murdock.

“I want to talk,” he said. He’d never contacted them at all, and their contacts went through the monks or Foggy. “I want to know everything.”

“We don’t know everything yet.”

He sounded like he had worked himself up to this and now he was unable to let it go, much as he might have wanted to. “I have a right to be part of this investigation.”

“Technically speaking, you don’t. These aren’t the channels you’re used to,” she pointed out. She was not looking forward to handing over information that might shatter him. He barely managed through a meeting with Steve, the world’s friendliest man. “Why do you want to know? Are you coming back to the city?”

“No, I ...” He spent a long time searching for how he wanted to say what he wanted to say. “I want to make peace with myself. I can’t do that unless I know what I did.”

That was fair. Brutal, but fair. “We can’t do it over the phone.”

“My schedule’s pretty open.”

“I can pencil you in. Does the church have a place to land a jet?”

*******************************

She took a motorcycle, of course. It was more feasible and more fun. It was a weekday, when the place was closed to visitors. Matt Murdock greeted her in the parking lot. He looked better, more like the man in the photographs from before the kidnapping, looking like a more ordinary blind guy with his cane and glasses, even if Natasha knew a disguise when she saw one. It was a warm day, enough to sit on the bench outside, where there were scattered bits of grass not still covered by old snow.

After exchanging niceties, they sat in the sun for a bit. He looked like he needed it. He broke the silence first. “I’m sorry if this is rude, but I read up on you. And the, uh, Black Widow program.”

“It’s public knowledge now,” she said. “I helped make that happen and I don’t regret it.”

“It sounds like it made life difficult for you.” He did sound sympathetic.

“All my covers were getting hard to keep straight anyway,” she replied, even if that wasn’t quite true. It brought a hesitant smile to Matt’s face. “I don’t have time to be afraid of committees full of out-of-shape men in suits.”

“But if you weren’t an Avenger – “

“It would be different. Trust me, I know.” She didn’t have to wonder too hard at why he was curious. He had built a life for himself outside of being Daredevil, or just a ninja, or whatever he considered himself. That life had a lot of innocent people, more than she was accustomed to working with. “Do you want to ask how I feel about having killed a lot of people?”

“I didn’t – “

She didn’t feel the need to coddle him. Not about this, at least. “I never would have killed anyone if I hadn’t thought it was the necessary thing to do at the time. But I can’t ignore the circumstances surrounding it. Am I ever going to stop feeling bad about it? No. As much as I would love a clean slate, the truth is that nobody gets one.”

“But you would take it back.” It wasn’t a question.

“Everything has something they’d like to take back. We’re not special.”

“That’s not what I meant to say,” he said with a warmth in his voice, “but that’s fair.”

Natasha pulled the envelope out of her bag and passed it to him. The information wasn’t very detailed, but there’s a lot of pages of thick paper. Matt opened it and ran his fingers against the top half of the first one. “I suppose you don’t have to worry about anyone reading over your shoulder,” she said.

“Yeah, it has that advantage.” He stuffed the braille print-outs back in the folder. “How accurate do you think it is?”

“You want me to say it out loud?” She had to check. This guy was like an open wound that was trying to pretend it wasn’t bleeding.

“Yes.”

“Twelve confirmed, another seven suspected, but I don’t think that’s the whole list. We might never have the whole list, especially since SHIELD isn’t actively investigating it. The file says you’re inactive.”

“It’s not the whole list,” Matt said. So he did remember things he wasn’t talking about. “Where are you on the investigation?”

“We have two suspects in hiding. Former members of the Hand, went rogue, but they still have enough support to find cover. We suspect the Hand higher ups might be willing to give them up under certain conditions.”

“And in return?”

“We have to find a way to get to Stick to back down.”

“He’ll never agree.” That answer didn’t take any deep thought. “He never backs down. Never gives an inch.” His smile faded. “What do you need from me?”

“We don’t need anything from you.” She looked down at his hands, which were shaking. “Even if you talked to Stick, you just said he can’t be convinced of anything.”

“No, he can’t. But I don’t want him to kill those people.”

“These are the people who – “

“I _know_ what they did to me,” he said firmly. “I also know there’s no way to bring them to justice. I’m a lawyer; I’ve thought about it. There’s no proper category in international law for what they did, and even if you had them in custody, we could never bring it to trial. They probably left no evidence and my testimony is worthless, and there’s no way to even introduce charges without bringing in everyone who’s been involved in helping me. If I killed anyone in a death penalty state or country, that’s where it will end. I’ll die, they’ll go free. No one will be satisfied. The families of my victims might feel better, but it won’t bring anybody back. Justice will not be served.”

He could be articulate when he wanted to be. She belatedly remembered this was his specialty. “What if Stick succeeded?”

Matt took a deep breath, as if he wanted to clear himself of impure thoughts. “You mean if we let him? I don’t want to be complicit in that. That’s not the right way, either.”

“Then what is the right way? Do you have any brilliant ideas?”

“No,” he admitted. “But we’re supposed to try. That’s what makes us different from the bad guys.”

“You don’t make anything easy for yourself, do you?”

He grinned, flashing white teeth. “It’s not really my style.”


	13. For I Have Sinned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for the following: extremely violent imagery, cursing, and Stick being Stick.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I don’t know how long it’s been since my last confession.”

Getting to those words brought about a wave of relief in Father Lantom even as he was bracing for what was coming. This was the end of a period of long negotiations, first Matt with himself, then with his therapist, then with the diocese because Lantom needed the time off to go upstate and a rental car to get there. But it wasn’t unreasonable for Matthew to need the confessor who knew him best, and he was a member of Lantom’s flock, however much Matt might be uncomfortable with that idea. Matthew probably thought he was more of a lone wolf than a sheep. He wasn’t even able to get in the booth, so Lantom said it didn’t matter (it didn’t). They put the table in his room between them as a barrier, their chairs parallel, and it really didn’t feel all that different except the air was less stuffy and neither of them could hide in darkness.

“I have a list,” Matthew said, reaching for the braille sheet on the table. “I know it’s not complete. I can’t match all the people and names. I don’t remember all of it.”

“You can only do your best.”

“I don’t want to remember all of it. Ever since it started coming back, I’ve wanted it to stop.” But he hadn’t requested Lantom’s presence for therapy. Maybe a little, but not entirely. “How should we do this?”

He was about to say it didn’t matter, but Matthew needed guidance. “Try chronologically.”

“Okay.” Matthew swallowed. “Then I think I have to start with the dogs.”

*******************************

G-d, they’d really fucked him up. Father Lantom was going to be doing a lot of Hail Marys for all the cursing he was doing under his breath. It had been a long time since he heard a confession of this nature, not only for its gruesomeness, but because Matthew didn’t seem to be aware of how little decision making had been available to him at the time. A mortal sin required, at the barest minimum, choice. His captors – who Matthew only spoking of sparingly, as if they were disembodied presences, without shape or form – slowly and methodically stripped away his ability to make decisions, but Matthew refused to write that off. All of his hatred was turned inwards, and while Lantom would never advise him to turn it elsewhere (on the people responsible, maybe?), it was keeping him in a hole, away from feeling anything good for himself, away from G-d’s love.

Of course Matthew had fought. The body would always fight, and even after it was incapable, the soul would continue on. He had reserves of strength from enduring former hardships, both before and during his tenure as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He was already using it to repair himself. He was worn down from struggling to make sense of the insensible, but he was still fighting. It was a bit of a miracle to behold.

“I think the first person was – I don’t know who she was, but I think she was a prostitute. They must have gotten someone like that. She smelled like one. They smell like cheap perfume. Hair dye. Defoliants. Spermicide. I could go into further detail but I don’t think – “

“You don’t have to.”

“I wasn’t being judgmental. I was just guessing. And that’s the sort of person – it makes sense that they would go missing and no one would follow-up on it. It’s – it’s a problem.” He leaned back. “I remember her voice. She knew something was wrong. She was scared. She wasn’t hiding it. Her fear tasted like – it made it easier.” He rushed to say, “But it wasn’t _easy_. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“I understand.”

“I tried – I knew what would happen if I tried to resist. I had already been through that so many times. But I never seemed to die, even when I thought I was going to. I could always take more. I didn’t want to. I wanted to die.”

There was nothing for Lantom to say. Not for the first time, Matthew was crying, but their agreement was that he would try to push through.

“I guess I knew that they were going to kill her if I wasn’t. I’d stopped thinking about who was doing this to me. I still haven’t thought that much about it. That’s still – that’s programming, I think. She was the first human voice I heard in maybe months. It was so strange. She was screaming a lot. She didn’t know what was going on so I guess watching me be electrocuted – I don’t know when it happened, but I strangled her. To make her stop. I didn’t like it, but I liked how quiet it was. I wasn’t used to noise. I just wanted it to stop.” He wiped his eyes. “I realized later what I’d done, and I knew I was damned.”

“You know now that that’s not true?”

Matthew didn’t answer immediately. So no, he didn’t believe it, not fully. It would take time. He continued as if Lantom hadn’t spoken, “After that there was ... training. It was one of them. He had a Japanese accent. I think he was a doctor. He got me back in shape. But he didn’t talk to me, except to test me. If I listened to him, did whatever he said to do, I got a shock for listening to a person instead of the computer voice. I started tuning him out. And then the voice – the machine voice – told me to kill him. He didn’t know it was coming. He thought he was safe from me. He wasn’t ready. I beat him to death with a metal bat. That was what I was told to do, so I did it, but it took him a long time to die. Internal hemorrhaging takes longer than bleeding out. He was unconscious but I had to destroy his skull before his heart finally stopped. I never knew his name.” He sighed, running his fingers over the list. “The others, I have names for, but the only thing I had was scent. Maybe taste. I don’t remember ever going anywhere. I think – well, the file says I was drugged, I was in this box, and I had something with a scent on it. So scent and taste. That was all I needed. If anyone else was there, as long as they didn’t get in my way, I ignored them.”

The litany of names began. Matthew couldn’t remember anything about most of them. He couldn’t put a name to a scent or a mission. A few he could figure out from context, where they were male or female, where they lived (they’d sent him all over the world and places had distinct things about them that he could determine in post). One man he fought was wearing a prosthetic leg, another woman was blind – both of those were sent to rescue him. He remembered that they were good fighters. They probably only lost because they weren’t supposed to kill him, and that gave him an edge.

At least three were unnecessary casualties: people who had tried to protect their loved ones. He didn’t have time for people who got in the way. He didn’t set out to kill them, but it happened. One of them was a husband: he was supposed to kill the wife. “They smelled like each other. The way couples do. It’s a particular kind of scent. Sticks on them, when they’ve been together for a while.” He remembered the way that they’d died, but not how he felt during or after. He only remembered the in-between times, when drugs were controlling his brain functions, which was like going up and down a rollercoaster. All he had left were his primal emotions – joy, fear, anxiety.

Lantom wondered how long this could have gone on. Surely not very long before he was destroyed entirely? And yet he’d managed to survive. The priest couldn’t say he would have done the same.

“I don’t remember being rescued,” Matthew said, finally, and Lantom felt the weight of his body after so long in the chair. And he was usually good at this. “I remember being ordered to kill. They got vibranium for me somehow. But after that, it’s blank. There was a lab, and then I was here.” He chuckled sadly. “Natasha – that’s Black Widow – says they’re probably not coming for me. I’m an ‘unrecoverable asset.’ I know I should be grateful, but what does that mean? What does that make me?”

“You’re a human being, Matthew,” Lantom said. “And everyone has their breaking point. They came very close with you, but in the end, they lost.” He didn’t wait for Matthew to figure out a way to respond to that. “You’re here talking to me, aren’t you?”

“I don’t feel like ...” Matt swallowed. “Sometimes I wish I had died.”

“You’re a survivor, and your mind is trying to cope. Provided you have no intention of doing anything about these feelings, it’s not something to be ashamed of. Your feelings go places you don’t want them to go, but you have the capability of recognizing them for what they are. Just feelings.” He listened to the quiet that followed. He could only guess what was going on in Matthew’s head, though he felt he had a better hone on his mood. “Do you want to be forgiven?”

“I don’t know.” He sounded stunned by the question. It forced him to answer honestly.

“What do you want?”

“I want to stop feeling like this,” Matthew said. “Like a monster. For years I thought I had the Devil inside me, and I had to fight him, make sure he didn’t get out. Now I’ve seen him. Other people have seen him. He’s not clever or tricky or mean. He’s just an animal, and he’s capable of things I don’t want to be capable of.”

“As I recall, you became the Devil because you wanted to make the world safe from evil. You wanted to be a righteous avenger. And you were. That line was always going to be dangerous from you. But this – someone took you and used you. You came to me to make a decision. Other people took that ability away from you. Do you understand the difference?”

“I guess.” That was as close to a positive response as Lantom knew he was going to get. “Are you trying to offer me absolution?”

“That is what this ritual is about. But it’s not because I feel bad for you. I’m only a stand-in. You shouldn’t seek my approval. You should seek G-d’s, and that is being offered. You’ve confessed. You’ve repented. You can be forgiven. It won’t wipe away you’ve done, but it will help you forgive yourself. And sometimes that does require His Grace.”

Matt seemed convinced, at least partially. “What do I have to do?”

“You know what to say.”

Matt crossed himself. “For these and all these sins of my past life, especially the deaths of so many people, I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

“For your penance, pray five Hail Marys for each death you do know about, and additional five for the ones you may not be able to remember. When you’re well, you should make a pilgrimage to a shrine. It doesn’t have to be far away, but it should be outside of the state. There’s a shrine in New Jersey – Our Lady of the Rosary. You can get there on a train from Penn Station. Visit it or something else suitable and pray to St. Michael for healing and St. Mary for the strength to forgive yourself,” Lantom said. “God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.”

“God has forgiven your sins. Do your penance and take Communion. Go in peace.”

His voice echoing with disbelief, Matthew answered, “Thank you, Father.”

“And here,” Lantom tossed his gift of a counter across the table after removing his stole. “It will help you keep a better count.”

Matthew smiled, and not one of his forced smiles, when he was in pain or trying desperately to be clever. He smiled like the sun.

*******************************

“New Jersey? Really?”

They were sitting in the back of the chapel. Foggy was aggressively agnostic (“Seems like Norse paganism is the most accurate religion anyway”) but he’d come to services for Matt to take Communion, even though he wasn’t allowed to joke about it. Matt knew it looked silly, knew there had been a whole Reformation in Europe over it, but the Eucharist was off-limits for casual conversation. Foggy had learned that in college. He knew, vaguely, what it meant to Matt, so he came.

Now services were over – for the time being, of course, there were a lot of canonical hours. “Summit, New Jersey.”

“Sounds exciting.”

Matt played with the cane between his legs. “I thought it was nice of him to pick something on a public transit line.”

“And here I was, looking forward to going to Rome. Or what’s that place that everyone goes in Europe with the magic water?”

“Lourdes. And the placebo effect is science, Foggy. Show some respect. And how would we afford Europe, exactly?”

Foggy sucked in his breath. “Just to be clear, you signed off on this.”

“Signed off on what?”

“... I may have turned your apartment into an Air BnB.” His body moved into the ‘don’t hit!’ position. Matt was familiar with it. “Come on, it’s eight blocks from Times Square. We’re making a mint. And don’t worry, I put all your stuff in storage, so when you come home everything won’t smell like sweaty tourists.”

“And when exactly did I say yes to this?”

“It was more like I said, ‘Hey Matt, if you agree that this is a good idea to pay your rent, don’t say anything.’ And you didn’t,” Foggy explained. “Because you signed a five-year lease. Who the hell signs a five-year lease? And I co-signed it because you couldn’t make the deposit on your own. I couldn’t afford to let it just sit there, sucking up rent money. So I bought some furniture and hired a cleaning lady and after all that you’ve got money in the bank and I can afford grad school.”

“Air BnB is illegal.”

“And that’s why it’s so profitable. Can’t declare the earnings. I had central air installed in the office, Matt. _Central air_. Not a window unit that doesn’t do its job.”

“Did you get your new fax machines?”

“It faxes and it copies and it scans! We’re living in the future. We’re a step away from floating desk chairs and hoverboards.”

Matt laughed. It was nice to hear Foggy excited about something going on in their sort-of shared lives. And he hadn’t thought about what might have become of his lease until this conversation, so he supposed Foggy’s solution was more than fair. “I bet Stark Industries actually has floating desk chairs.”

“And you’re friends with them now! So we could probably get one. Or two. We could get two.” He added, “No pressure.”

“I know,” he said. “Are you not also friends with them? You’ve talked to them more than me.”

“I’ve also yelled at them a lot, so ...” Foggy shrugged. “I just shrugged.”

“I know.”

“Is there anything you don’t know about me?”

“What you look like.”

“You have no idea what you’ve been spared from, buddy.”

*******************************

Matt sensed what was coming when he was at Lauds, when he should have been concentrating on practicing his Latin instead of focusing on who might be meandering around the grounds on a weekday. When he returned to his room, the smell of the monastery’s particular brew was stronger than he preferred it.

“This is shit.”

“Yeah, that’s why I don’t drink it.” Matt set his cane against the wall. He had no other beverages to offer Stick, who was rather distinctly sitting in _his_ chair of the two. “Where have you been?”

“Why? Did you miss me?”

“No, but I expected you sooner than this.” Matt pulled the rest of the case away from Stick. The least he could do was stop him from drinking the abbey’s stolen beer. “You usually hit me up when I’m at my lowest point. I feel like that was months ago.”

“Yeah, while you were busy jackin’ it in a confessional, I was working. On your behalf, I might add.”

“If you’re going to talk like that, we’re going outside.”

Stick put his feet up on the table. “You’ve always been self-righteous but Jesus Christ, Matty.”

“I mean it.” And he hated when Stick called him ‘Matty.’

“Fine, fine.” Stick held his hands up. “I won’t disturb the mood of your happy place. This is a safe place where we can all share our feelings or whatever.” He took another long sip. “Your new friends have become a real pain in my butt. And I can’t believe I just had to say ‘butt.’”

“They said they offered to help you.”

“Help me with what? We’re after very different things.” Matt didn’t doubt that was true. “They’re negotiating with the Hand to try to stop me. You know who the Hand is?”

“Nobu’s group? Yeah, you never got around to telling me much about that. It probably would have been helpful.”

“They were supposed to defend this world from demons, but they got a little off-message. More like the other way around.”

“Is that what Black Sky is?”

Stick laughed so hard he almost choked on his beer. “If it makes you feel better, yes. As usual, you’re stumbling around in the dark, ten steps behind everyone else.”

“You don’t even know what dark is.” It was one area where he had Stick beat.

“I have a general concept.”

“You want to tell me why you’re here?” Matt didn’t know how long he could go without throttling him, and his hosts would not be happy with that.

“Your new friends, the ones who call themselves the good guys? They’re ready to sell me out to the Hand in return for handing over our targets. The Hand’ll put a spin on it so it doesn’t sound that way, but that’ll be the offer. The Hand wants me dead, and they’re willing to give up two ex-members for it.”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine why that would be. The Avengers told me about your crusade.”

“Ha! As if they’re the ones avenging anything.” Stick smiled and Matt couldn’t help but feel a little like joining him. It was a stupid name. “And I’m on a mission.”

“You’re killing innocent people.”

“I’ve _never_ killed an innocent person,” Stick said with more definitiveness than he usually put into his answers. “Not even Black Sky. That kid was not innocent. He was beyond saving at that part. It was a mercy killing.”

“If that helps you sleep at night.”

“I sleep like a friggin’ baby. How about you?”

“I’m not saving you from the Avengers.”

“I don’t need you for that. I need you to come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you, and I know you want to,” Stick said. “I can see right past your Catholic boy goody two-shoes bit. You can call it revenge. You can call it justice. You can say whatever you need to say to yourself. But beneath all of ideas about what some book says is right and wrong, you want this. You need this. You need those people dead, or you’re never going to be whole again.”

He couldn’t lie to Stick – though he was fairly sure Stick could lie to him – so he debated his answer. He didn’t want to say he was right, either. It was just more complicated than that. “You told me killing was crossing a line. Well, now I’ve crossed it. I know what I become, and I don’t want to be that person ever again. So yeah, I’ll lose a little sleep over it, but I’m not following you this time. I know where that path ends.” He sighed. “You wanted me to be killer. Now I am. Does that make your happy?”

“No, Matty. That’s not what it’s like.”

“Then what is it like? Because for someone who claims not to care about anyone else, you’re sending a lot of mixed signals,” Matt said. “I know you sent your students to save me, knowing what might happen to them. I know you lost your job over it, and that job was your life, so I can’t even imagine how much else you’ve given up to kill the people who hurt _me_.” He pointed his finger right at Stick. He learned how to do it in mock trial. “I don’t want them dead, Stick. I don’t want anyone else to die because of what’s happened. Even if a part of me is angry, it doesn’t have to rule me. If you do this, you’re on your own.”

“What are you going to do? Fight me over it?”

“No.” Because he could tell Stick was itching for it. “We both know how that would end.” Stick wouldn’t kill Matt, and Matt wouldn’t kill Stick. They would hurt each other and settle nothing. “If you go forward with your ‘mission,’ it’s without me. And if you finish it, I will not be appreciative. Now _get out_.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” Stick said, rising from his chair.

“It is.”

Stick waited a few seconds to see if Matt would flinch. He didn’t. “Good seeing you, kid.”

Matt wanted to interrupt and say he wasn’t a kid, but to let Stick go, he had to let the conversation go, and that wasn’t easy to do. He knew this was really a dick move, but as soon as his former mentor was out of earshot, he picked up the plastic chair and hurled it against the wall.

It did not make him feel better.


	14. Into the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for not particularly descriptive sex.
> 
> Also, wow, changing fonts on AO3 is about the most complicated thing in the world if you copy-pasted with Rich Text.

“Sometimes it’s harder to walk away than continue fighting.”

That was what Steve said to him. Steve Rogers – _Captain America_ – who he was now friends with, if Facebook had anything to say about. Steve sent him messages from time to time, wishing him well, asking him vague, open-ended questions about his health that were always tagged with an explanation that he was not demanding an answer. Matt rarely responded. He didn’t want to talk about himself – he had enough of that in therapy, with Father Lantom, and with Foggy – and he still got a bit star-struck. Steve was a celebrity. There were biographies of him. A radio show. A graphic novel series. A bad TV movie in the 80’s, terribly unrealistic, but Matt remembered watching it on the grainy old TV that still required you to manually turn the dial between stations. His memories of it now were dim, but he could recall a lot of explosions and people jumping away from said explosions. Also bad guys in warehouses with fake uzis, not accurate to the time period.

He knew Steve Rogers’ face (sort of) better than his best friend’s.

But Steve was unerringly polite and persistent, and he was a soldier. He could talk about things like war and responsibility with more perspective than Matt would ever have. So Matt responded, occasionally, to say he was doing better (“fine” would have been an outright lie, and that would be rude), and yes no one was bothering him (though he did like to imagine Captain America, in full uniform, punching a beer snob in the face), and no, he did not need anything. Thank G-d Steve didn’t offer to visit, because Matt would have a hard time turning him down. None of the other Avengers visited, not that he expected them to. They were busy ... avenging whatever. But all of the one that had been part of his initial rescue checked in a few times with a quick note saying they wished him well. Had he still been Daredevil, he would have been annoyed to be on their radar, since, again, secret councils ruling the world, Nazi death cults, alien gods trying to blow up Manhattan, etc. He supposed he was a civilian now, and that made things much less complicated. That was a strange thought. It was hard to say no to Stick, harder than he’d expected it to be by far, and not just because he wanted all of the things Stick offered. So much of his early time at the monastery was about getting a hold on things and _not_ attacking anyone and everyone, but now that he was better he did occasionally feel compelled to do _something_.

He sent a PM to Steve of his own volition for the first time. _What do you do when you’re bored between missions?_

**I run. A lot. It annoys some people. Also, I draw.**

_I didn’t know you were an artist._

**What, the biographies didn’t cover that? Shame on them.**

Matt laughed. _I mean still._

**I would send you something, but you know.**

_Yeah, visual art isn’t really my thing. Clint keeps sending me pictures by accident. I don’t know what they are but I don’t want to embarrass him._

**They’re his dog. 100% chance they’re his dog. We all get them.**

_Oh okay_. Matt paused with his fingers on the keyboard. _What else do you do? I mean between missions._

 **I don’t have a lot of downtime** , Steve admitted. **I could have more if I wanted. There’s no draft. I’m not even in the US military anymore. I can’t enlist either. Five decades too old. I checked.**

Matt let the comment sit, wondering what else he could say, when Steve typed, **You bored?**

_I have a lot to keep me occupied. I’m learning Latin. My grandmother would be so proud._

**(1) They don’t even use it for Mass anymore, what is this nonsense, and (2) That’s not what I meant.**

Ah, Captain America. Never one to disappoint. _I turned down an offer recently. In the old days I would never have done that. (also don’t tell foggy pls)_

**Can I ask why you turned it down? You don’t have to answer.**

He didn’t answer, not all the way. _I didn’t think it was the right thing for me to do._

**Doing the right thing is hard. Figuring out what the right thing is is usually harder.**

_You make it look easy._

**You should come to Washington sometime, see how easy it is. :)**

Matt smiled. _Thanks Steve_

**Anytime, buddy.**

Captain America just called him “buddy.” Cool.

*******************************

With the warmer weather, Matt spent more time wandering the grounds. There wasn’t a track for him to run on, and the surfaces of the hiking trails were uneven, but he did get a kick out of giving the monks a little panic attack when he disappeared down one.

He wasn’t used to nature. His cane – which he really did need – didn’t make the same tapping sound against dirt and it had a lot of rocks and tree roots to find. Fortunately there were lots of other things to provide him with noises to use as percussion for his senses. He didn’t know the first thing about identifying birds by their calls, it never having been relevant before, but he could at least tell them apart. Squirrels more or less acted like faster rats, taking off in one direction or another as he moved into their range. In the distance were deer, and a sleeping bear. He bent down and tasted the ground sometimes. _They say you have to eat a pound of dirt before you die_ , he thought to himself. It tasted different from anything in the city. Winter and snow had washed away any scents people or machines would have dropped, though there were always pesticides, here in their mildest form. No chemicals otherwise, just animal musk and plant remains that made it not far off from very bad salad.

It ignited a memory – something about gasoline and industrial chemicals – and he let it flow out of him rather than push it back down. It was harmless, he reminded himself. Something that had already happened and could not hurt him again, not unless he let it do so. This all sounded much easier in his head than it was in reality.

“Excuse me – are you lost?”

Which was how he missed the heartbeats and sweat of the people approaching. Two women, probably early twenties, dressed appropriately for the season, but standing uncomfortably. Their hiking boots smelled new, so they probably weren’t broken in yet, giving them blisters. They’d both been out for a while, maybe longer than they expected, from the dampness of their inner layers and the sweat rings around their hats.

The campsite nearby. It was open for seasonal use. Matt realized belatedly that a blind man hiking alone was probably extra strange looking. He put on his most disarming smile. “No, I’m very familiar with the area. But thanks for asking.”

“That’s good! I mean, we didn’t want to assume,” said the first girl. High voice. Long hair, not tied up in a ponytail, mint shampoo.

“And we also might be a little lost,” said the second girl. Softer voice, generic shampoo (probably Pert Plus), used a body lotion with aloe vera in it. “You wouldn’t happen to know if we’re on the red trail, would you?”

“I don’t know the colors of the trail markers,” he said. “But I can point you in the right direction to a landmark. You’re looking for the main campsite, I take it?”

They both nodded, and the second girl added, after a moment, “Yes. Sorry, we meant yes.”

He laughed, not because it was funny but because it would help with their embarrassment. “It’s okay. You guys are the camp that’s making chili?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Then it’s this way.” He pointed in the general direction. They couldn’t get there in a straight shot without going off the trail. “I’ll take you there, if you want. Sorry, but it’s sort of hard for me to describe a trail I’ve never seen.”

“We wouldn’t want to bother you – “

“Do you have a car?”

“Yeah,” the second girl said.

“Then you can return the favor by giving me a ride back. I’m staying at the monastery a couple miles up the road.”

“Yeah, sure,” said the same girl. They were both very eager to please. “Is it okay if I – “

“Yes,” he said, not explaining how he knew what she was asking, and let her take his right arm. It would actually slow him down, but he didn’t mind. “I’m used to other people leading _me_ , so this is nice.”

“So you’re a monk?”

He laughed, for real this time. “No, no, no. I’m just staying in the guest house. No, never. Not for me.” He paused as his cane caught a tree root running right through their path. “Watch your step.”

“So what are you – Oh! We haven’t introduced ourselves,” said the girl holding his arm. Well, woman, he supposed, and now it occurred to him that this was the first woman he’d spoken to since Natasha Romanov, and the first woman who had touched him in ... how long? He didn’t want to speculate. “I’m Becca, and this is Rosie. We go to Ithaca.”

“Graduate school? You sound too sophisticated for undergrad.”

“You’re sweet,” Rosie said. “And yes. We’re both going in the doctorate program for physical therapy.”

“That’s very noble of you.”

“Well we’re not out to save the world or anything,” Becca replied. “I think some people are in the program just to touch patients.”

“They’re going to be unpleasantly surprised in their practices,” Matt said, “because most of their patients are going to be hairy and cranky.”

“Yeah, PT. Pain and torture, we know the deal,” Rosie said with confidence and probably a knowing smirk. Matt was always guessing a bit with expressions. “So what do you do, uh – “

“Sorry. I’m Matt.” He stopped and held out his hand for whomever wanted to take it first. They both shook in turn. “I’m a defense attorney.” He felt like it was a lie, or at least a lie by omission. “I’m ... taking a break from my practice.”

“Why did you go to a monastery? I mean, if that’s not too personal a question,” Becca asked. She’d put her hand on his arm again. He was pretty sure Rosie would take the other arm if he wasn’t using it as his cane arm.

“I like the quiet,” he said. “The food isn’t too bad. Mostly organic. And the monks are the nicest people I’ve met in years. Though some of that is from living in New York City too long.” He pointed with his cane. “Don’t go up that path over there. There’s poison ivy everywhere. I may have found that out the hard way.” He swung his cane around. “It’s this way to the campsite.”

He’d never been there, but he could smell it, especially now that it was in use. There were three other campers, a girl and two guys, all about the same age. If the empties stacked on the table and the sticky weed smell was any indication, they were having a good time. The atmosphere was very chill.

“Oh, he’s not lost,” Becca said to what must have been their stunned reactions. “In fact he helped us get back. Everybody, this is Matt. Matt, everybody.”

They offered him dinner of hot stew and the first decent beer he’d had in more than a year. He politely ducked his turn when they passed a glass bowl around (he was on enough medication as it was). He was evasive when it came to questions about himself, but they were all distracted by learning what it was like to live in a monastery, and surprised to hear how mundane it really was, and that no, the monks weren’t transcribing medieval manuscripts and talking to each other in Latin, that they were modern people like everybody else, just people who had at some point chosen to dedicate their life to prayer and contemplation. He asked his hosts the regular questions – they all went to Ithaca – and got the regular answers.

Becca didn’t stray from his side. She smelled ... like a woman. People said that women smelled softer, but that was nonsense. Men and women smelled differently because of biology, but it mostly had to do with grooming habits, and products marketed to each gender, and ultimately it was like apples and oranges. All of the monks smelled more or less the same, a fact that was more focal to him now that he was with someone who was different. She was clearly interested – her face flushed when he talked, she came up with excuses to touch him – but he didn’t push it, preferring to let it take its natural course.

“ _Text message. Text message. Text message_.”

“Sorry, that’s me,” he said, and triple-clicked on his phone screen. “Play message.”

“ _Message from. Brother. Gregory. Where are you. Question Mark_.”

“I have to take this,” he said. “Reply to message.”

“ _Double-click to record reply_.”

“I am fine. Period. At campsite. Period. Will be back later. Period. Have ride. Period. Matt.” He double-clicked again to make it send, then smiled sheepishly at Becca. “I’m not usually out this late.”

“I didn’t even know phones could do that.”

“For most people, it’s not something that comes up.”

The fire was going strong but people started to wander off, or doze in their pop-up chairs. Becca had had her hand over Matt’s for a while now.

“This is going to sound really rude, and you don’t have to do this, but can I – “

He was familiar with that hand gesture, even if she didn’t know he couldn’t ‘see’ it. “A lot of people are curious about my eyes.” He removed his glasses. He didn’t know how much light the fire was giving off, but the heat was pretty strong. “I was blinded when I was nine. Industrial accident. That’s the other question.”

“Sorry. But um – “ She bit her lip. “You don’t see anything?”

“It’s called no light response. I’ve been told they just look sort of unfocused. I don’t actually have any control over what they do.”

She put a hand on his cheek. “I think they’re very pretty.”

“Stop me if I’m reading this wrong,” he said, even though he was positive that he wasn’t, or he never would have kissed her first. No, of course he wasn’t. She was just as eager as he was, if that was possible. She tasted like the stew and Diet Snapple and he could hear her arousal in the back of her throat.

Damnit. He hadn’t thought about sex in months and now he wasn’t going to last long if he didn’t regain some self-control. How could he possibly forget about _this_? Fortunately they abandoned pretenses pretty quickly, leaving the campfire for her tent. “This is okay?”

“More than okay,” he said. She was nervous, but not because she was new to this. He knew why, but he swallowed his pride and while she was overly gentle with him, he took his time with her. The moisturizer left a chemical scent but it certainly worked; her skin was so smooth he felt guilty about touching his calloused fingers to it, but he liked the way she tensed when he did, the way goosebumps appeared and the hair on the back of her arms stood up. He was too eager for this, or he could have spent more time ignoring his own needs and exploring hers, but it was becoming painful. “Um, this is embarrassing, but I don’t have any protection. I – I can’t exactly put it on the shopping list.”

“I thought you people didn’t believe in this stuff.”

“I’m Catholic, not the Pope.”

“I might have one in my purse,” she said, to his great relief. It really was his responsibility, as a gentleman, but he didn’t do the abbey pharmacy runs. He waited somewhat impatiently until she found it. “It’s your lucky night.”

“Thanks. And sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She silenced any further dissent with a kiss, which he was very happy to return.

*******************************

Tents were not very comfortable to lie in. Matt could feel every stone, every uneven patch of ground beneath the nylon despite the foam mattress. _Stick would approve_ , he thought.

He could tell the hour by the activity of the crickets. They found the other people in camp asleep in their own tents or discreet enough to not announce themselves. The fire had died down. Becca had to feel her away around until she found a flashlight. The ride back was spent in companionable silence. Matt felt a little sleepy and a little relieved. He did ask for her to park some distance away from the actual parking lot.

“You don’t want me to embarrass you in front of the monks?”

“I ... really don’t want to push their hospitality,” he said as he got out of the van and came around to her window.

“So confession tomorrow is going to be a little weird?”

“I don’t confess to things I don’t find sinful and have no intention of not doing again,” he said. “Kind of defeats the purpose.”

They didn’t exchange numbers. That was not what this was about. It was too ephemeral to recreate. That there was mist rolling down the hills surrounding a monastery in the early morning made it feel that way. He leaned in to kiss her, and she grabbed the back of his head and pulled him, the kiss being deeper and lasting longer, because in a minute, she would drive away and it would all be gone.

He had a feeling, one he couldn’t identify at first. As he walked up the steps to the side entrance, he realized it was happiness.


	15. The Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to start seeing some of that Avatar: The Last Airbender fusion stuff in this chapter. Not all of it is going to be totally explained in this fic and will be explained in the next. Hopefully the story should still be a pretty smooth ride for people not familiar with the mythology; it's only a line or two.

Natasha got a text – a real one, on paper, slipped in her mailbox – with very little warning to come, and without weapons. Clint was the only one who could go with her without attracting much attention, and was used to secret meetings in abandoned warehouses.

Well, not abandoned. Actively under construction, actually, with the sounds of welding and power drills going on the first floor to attest to it, despite the late hour. It looked like they were building office space. While she severely doubted that was true, it wasn’t like they could leave a piece of prime real estate untouched and expect to benefit from it. Maybe the Hand was going to break it up into tiny offices and rent it to literary agents and foreign companies who needed a US mailing address and Etsy artists who were spending way too much on overhead and wouldn’t last a year.

Sota, at the very least wearing a clean shirt, greeted them on the third floor. With him were two guards in black suits, and there were more in the empty room with nothing to offer but sawdust and folding chairs. Nobody felt too inclined to sit. They weren’t checked for weapons.

The young executive in a very expensive suit attracted their attention by the way the guards swarmed around him. There was nothing to indicate anyone’s affiliation with any group. He did not introduce himself. “My superiors have a proposal to offer you. After all, we want the same thing you want.”

“Which is?” Clint asked.

“Peace.” He glared at them. He was trying to hide that he was a little nervous. He probably wasn’t used to actually doing a lot of fighting. “One man killing our members left and right isn’t good for business.” He said nothing of the lives that had been lost. “We are prepared to give up Takeda and Meifing’s location with the understanding that you will attempt to capture them yourselves, after which they will become your problem, not ours.”

“And if we fail?”

He shrugged. “If you fail at your mission, that’s hardly our problem. If you fail because Stick gets to them first, that solves both of our problems. We can’t make it easy for you – this cannot look like a split in our organization. They have people loyal to them, and people they pay to be loyal. These people are all very dangerous or they wouldn’t have hired them. We would prefer if you encounter these ... soldiers ... and if they are still alive, you capture them and release them. In return for your efforts, we will agree to leave Stick and Murdock alone.”

“They’re not working together.”

The man gave a look like the question bored him with its irrelevancy. “We will pass the location on to Sota, and you will have to act on it immediately. We cannot predict when they will move again. Do we have a deal?”

*******************************

It was a good Saturday. Not a great Saturday, but not a bad one, either. Foggy didn’t have to jump out of bed and get in a car whose air conditioning took _forever_ to get going, but he couldn’t sleep in, either. Neither could Marci, who was already up when he woke. Of course. How did she do that without coffee? She had a fancy espresso machine (a gift from a client; Foggy knew better than to ask questions) but it took a lot of effort to work and she just preferred to have some intern buy her something expensive at the shop near her office, no matter the day/hour/inconvenience. Foggy knew how to use it, but that would require getting out of bed, which he didn’t want to do.

He looked at the clock. He still had some time. “Where are you going?”

“I have depositions to go over,” she said from her walk-in closet.

“On a Saturday?”

“If I don’t want to remain a junior associate my whole life, yes,” Marci said. “You’d know this if you had clients.”

“And I’m already a partner. Pretty much cannot be fired.”

“Partner implies a second person works there.”

He sighed. “I’ve given him outs. He hasn’t taken them.”

The old Marci would have added a snarky comment to that and kept upping the ante. The new Marci was holding back. She had taken Matt’s disappearance seriously, after all, even if it meant the (temporary) end of their relationship, and she was one of the first people Foggy called after Matt’s recovery was made semi-public. All he had to say were the words “human trafficking” and that put an end to tough, unforgiving Marci. She didn’t ask a lot of follow up questions, for which he was grateful, and she did occasionally ask how Matt was doing when she wasn’t getting territorial about Foggy’s weekends. But Marci was Marci, and nothing could change that, which meant an occasional jibe in the direction of Foggy’s career choices.

He really, really liked the new Marci. That was why he was sleeping in her bed, not his. And why his things were increasingly finding their way into her apartment, though it did help that she thought – correctly – that his apartment was shit. He did not want to get on her bad side.

Which was why he was tempted to burrow under the bed when she stormed back in. “Why do you have a second phone, and who the hell is Natasha?”

He gave her credit for not using a stronger word than hell. “What?” He did look up. Oh, thank G-d. The super high tech burner phone. “Oh. That’s my Avenger phone.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“When have I ever been able to lie to you?” he pointed out. He thought that was a solid argument. “Yes, it’s the phone the Avengers gave me when they found Matt. It’s super spyware or something. And Natasha is Natasha Romanov. Black Widow.”

She did know the detail that the Avengers were the ones who found Matt, though again, human trafficking was a scary term, so she hadn’t pried. “They gave you a phone?”

“So they could contact me. They haven’t caught the people who did it. The investigation is ongoing and they’re supposed to go through me if they want to talk to Matt, because he does not need their crazy shit in his life right now.”

Marci, fully dressed for work at a high-powered law firm, sat on the edge of the bed and scrolled through the numbers. “Who is Clint?”

“The bow and arrow guy. Yeah, I didn’t know who he was, either. It was a little embarrassing.”

“And Bruce?”

“The Hulk. Which was _super_ embarrassing. Took me forever to figure out.”

“He’s giant and green. How hard could that have been?”

“He’s not that way all the time. When he’s not he’s really shy. And not big. Or green. So, yeah, it took me a long time.”

“Stark’s not on the list.”

“Believe it or not, a kidnapping case does not involve every Avenger in the universe.” And also at least one other universe, right? Was that how dimensions worked? Because Thor wasn’t from around town. And he hadn’t met Thor. But he stopped wondering long enough to look at up at Marci’s face. “Why? Do _you_ know Tony Stark?”

“I know we’re suing him for sexual harassment,” Marci said. “I can tell you what his team of lawyers looks like, and they are much less exciting than he is.”

“Are you telling me you find Stark exciting?”

“He knows how to play to the cameras,” she graciously admitted. “And dodge lawsuits. This one’s dragged out for five years.”

“He’s saved the world since then.”

Marci rolled her eyes. “Yes, and his legal time won’t let us forget it. Throwing a missile into the sky does not unmake a misogynist asshole.”

This was not a fight he wanted to pick with Marci. Besides, why would he defend Tony Stark’s honor? That seemed like a losing battle. “Well good thing I’m not friends with Tony Stark.”

She was still messing with the phone she should not have been messing with. And how had she guessed his passcode so easily? “So Steve is – “

“Yeah. And he’s nice. And I may have cursed him out a couple times anyway. Which he was really understanding about.”

“Impressive! I didn’t know you had it in you.” And she had heard him curse lots of times, maybe more than he had collectively cursed to anyone else he had ever met, but for different reasons. She kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t go easy on Captain America! Or snotty little pre-laws. I don’t want the competition.”

His first order of the day – after giving up on the espresso maker – was running up to Columbia to proctor an exam by aforementioned undergrads, the obligation that prevented him from his usual trip upstate. He would have to repeat it tomorrow, too, for the Jewish kids who were Shomer Shabbat and the Seventh Day Adventists. It wasn’t too bad – he spent it reading articles on JSTOR for a paper of his own – but he had other ways he preferred to spend his weekends.

In the afternoon he skyped with Matt. The service could be spotty, but it was easier because he had the camera turned off on his end. Matt didn’t care for talking on Skype for the same reason he didn’t like the phone or watching television – he said he couldn’t use any of his extra senses to get a feel for the room, making everyone sound much flatter to him. It was hard to get him to admit this, but he put up with it for Foggy, and when they talked with Karen. He looked a little disoriented, too, making Foggy realized just how much he relied on his abilities to feel comfortable around people. He didn’t wear glasses for the computer camera, and when the video feed was particularly clear Foggy could see his eyes darting around.

But this afternoon, Matt was bashful. “Let’s just say my monkhood application isn’t going to be accepted anytime soon.”

“Please don’t tell me you were filling it out.”

Matt just grinned and scratched behind his ear. “So they don’t really have a _written_ rule about this, but if you get a ride back home from a woman, you definitely shouldn’t make out with her in the parking lot, even if you think you think the mist is going to hide you.”

Foggy’s laughter was genuine, not mocking. “Oh thank G-d.”

“I’m just going to assume you’re not taking the L-rd’s name in vain.”

“Oh trust me, that was a real prayer of thanksgiving. About as genuine as they come,” he said between giggles. “Should I even ask what you have to do for penance?”

“Penance is for people who confess about something they feel bad about,” Matt pointed out. “I just feel bad about being caught. But I will be scrubbing a lot of floors if I know what’s good for me.” He coughed. “Slight rephrasing of what the abbot actually said.”

“Good for you. I mean, not the floors part. But imagine me holding out a fist. For a bump.”

Matt put his knuckles against the screen, and Foggy made a sound effect when he put his up. “Boom. There’s the old Matt. You get a burner phone for her?”

“It wasn’t that kind of thing. And they’re leaving tomorrow. Bunch of campers, med students who came up to get stoned and eat vegan chili.”

“Gross.”

“It had a lot of artificial flavor packets, so yeah, it was, but I didn’t say anything.” Matt was shaking his head. “How’s everything at home?”

“Well to some people, _today_ was the L-rd’s day, and for some stupid reason Columbia still tests on Saturdays, so I’ve got to proctor another test _tomorrow_. And Marci’s working, of course. Helping Sharpe and Associates sue Tony Stark.”

“Sexual harassment?”

“How did you guess? And also, we’re not talking about this. With you and your superhero friends.”

Matt nodded. “At least two of them do not actually have superpowers.”

“Are you saying there’s hope for us yet?”

“For what? Being Avengers? You know we have a practice, right?”

Foggy smiled at Matt’s use of the word ‘we.’ “I just want to go to their parties.”

“Stop mouthing off to Captain America then.”

“That’s how they put it? ‘Mouthing off’? I’m shaking my head in righteous indignation. I want you to know that.”

“Take care of yourself. He’s bigger than you.”

“I can be vicious. I can be legally vicious. And they know it.”

Matt laughed. “If that’s something you’re proud of, then great.”

He was a little proud of it. He was grateful to the Avengers, and would never stop being so for all they’d done for Matt, but the second they started talking about him like an asset or a victim he would be all over them. It was more than a little empowering.

Thinking of it put him in a good mood when he got a text from Marci saying she was working late, and no, they’d already ordered dinner in the office (undoubtedly at a far more expensive place than he could afford), so he shouldn’t stop by to try to deliver something for her and yes, he should not wait up. Success was what Marci wanted, and her work with Sharpe wasn’t all threatening with baseless accusations and waiting for settlements. They would settle with Stark as soon as the number got high enough, but they also did pro bono work on that Columbia rape case with the mattress woman. He couldn’t begrudge her for her work ethic.

He decided to go out for a drink on Matt’s behalf, not for the first time (Matt was going to have to get really plastered to catch up), and was so caught up in thinking about the possibility of that happening that he didn’t see the van pulling up, or even make a good attempt at running or screaming when the men in red costumes pulled him in.

*******************************

When Sota returned from his Spirit World meditations, Stick was sitting across from him. That wasn’t any surprise, but he really didn’t like how going so deep into a trance made his body so vulnerable. It was why he double-locked the door to his room before attempting it and just prayed there was no building fire or alien attack while he was mentally absent.

“I want your help,” Stick said. “You owe me.”

Sota sighed. He wondered how Stick imagined himself. He wondered how he picked out his clothes. Stupid things like that. “And you’re supposed to be teaching me firebending.”

“I’ve been busy.” At least he didn’t seem to have raided the liquor cabinet or Sota’s stash yet. Stick didn’t look up properly when they talked. He was fully capable of looking in the right direction, but rarely bothered. Right now his head was dipped too far down. Master Izo did that, too. They couldn’t possibly have picked it up from each other, could they?

“If I go against the Hand, it threatens the conditions of my retirement,” Sota reminded him.

“But Meifing and Takeda aren’t really the Hand anymore, are they? They didn’t have permission to mess with Black Sky. And nobody cares how they end up dead, so long as Murdock and I go down with them.”

“The Avengers said Murdock is staying out of it.”

Stick laughed. He had a creepy laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s dumb enough to pass up an opportunity to eliminate him. He has an apartment five blocks from their new headquarters. And don’t think I don’t know what they’re building there.”

“Why do you need me? No one has managed to stop you so far.”

“I can’t leave any of this to chance.” It was as close as Stick would come to admitting weakness.

“I spoke to Master Izo,” Sota said. “He said he wants you to get Murdock back on the right path this time.”

“Easier said than done.”

“He wants you to send him to Aokigahara.” Stick went very still when he said this. Sota continued, “He also said he would tell you this himself if you would ever visit him.”

“Like I said – I’ve been busy.”

Ah, so there was some tension between Master Izo and his most famous student. Stick had massively screwed up with Murdock, everybody knew that, but that was years ago, and Izo hadn’t mentioned it since. It wasn’t his style. But it also wasn’t his style to let something as important as this sit so long. “I’ll help you. But I won’t sacrifice my life for this.”

“That,” Stick said, “is your imperative.”


	16. Avengers, Assembled

They didn’t drug him. Foggy thought that was nice. He supposed they could have, but there was no reason. With a black bag over his head, he couldn’t see where they were going, and there were too many turns to follow. At one point he was even pretty sure they were on the George Washington Bridge. He couldn’t talk with duct tape over his mouth and he wasn’t stupid, so he didn’t put up much of a fight. If these were the same guys who took Matt – and really, even if they weren’t – he was in over his head, no matter how many superheroes he had on speed dial. His kidnappers didn’t talk much, except to bark directions at each other, and those were in Japanese.

The thing was, the girl from his Punjabi class wasn’t his only foreign student crush. In college there was Aiko, and for her he’d taken two semesters of college-level conversational Japanese. It was rusty, but he could understand “left,” “right,” and could get from context that they were cursing at each other a lot.

They drove for what seemed like hours, but was probably a lot shorter. Matt would probably be able to tell these things. He would have a lot more information just from _smelling_ the van. He might have broken his thumbs or something to get himself out of the bike chains, knocked his captors unconscious, and leapt out of the speeding vehicle to land safely somewhere else. But he was Matt, and Foggy was Foggy.

Shit. Matt. This was probably about him. If they told Matt they took him ... Matt would come. He wouldn’t hesitate. Even if Foggy tried to stop him, he wouldn’t. No one would be capable of stopping him from falling into this trap, and they knew that.

_G-d damnit Matt_. _Don’t do this_. _Call the fucking Avengers instead_.

Matt wouldn’t do that.

Foggy had sunk into despair as they pulled him out of the car and dragged him through what felt like a marble-floored hallway and into an elevator. It sounded kind of ... fancy? It turned out that just because he couldn’t see didn’t give him Matt’s senses. He really had no idea where he was, no idea how many people were around and who they were and if they were armed or whatever when they chained him to a chair. It was a nice chair. With wooden arms and a cushion. So ... not an abandoned warehouse?

The person in front of him tore the hood off. He was in a fancy hotel room, lights on and all. Wow. He was terrible at this.

She – it was a woman, looked Asian but he didn’t want to assume, in a sensible black suit – reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his phone. He still had his phone on him! Damnit! He was the worst kidnapping victim ever. She said something to the other well-dressed person next to her in Japanese, and he was still kicking himself for his idiocy so he didn’t get a chance to focus enough to translate it for himself. The man – also Asian – tore the duct tape off his mouth, taking a couple layers of skin with it.

“Your passcode,” the woman said to Foggy, holding up his phone. He had barely opened his mouth when someone behind him grabbed his hair and pulled it back as he felt a knife – no, a full on sword – press against his throat. “Don’t be stupid. If you’re alive, Murdock will come to save you. If you’re dead, he will come to avenge you. Which one he does doesn’t make a difference to us.”

He swallowed, really, really hoping his throat wouldn’t be cut open in the process. “What are you going to do to him?”

“Is there really any reason you need to know?” she asked, sounding amused but impatient. Her accent was very heavy but her English was fluent. “It won’t change your answer. Which you should give. Now.”

He felt the knife edge against his skin and he said, “0464.”

She immediately pulled up his contact list and dialed, putting it on speakerphone. “There’s nothing you can say that can help him or you, so don’t try.”

He knew it was true, but it didn’t stop him from wishing it wasn’t. Or praying that Matt wouldn’t pick up the phone. Or that someone else would get it, even if he knew on Matt’s end it was saying his name, over and over again, so there could be no mistaking who’s phone it was, or who was calling. “Foggy?” Matt didn’t sound surprised. Distracted, even, but not uninterested.

“If you want to see him alive, you’ll come to this address,” the woman said, and gave off something in Jersey, some place Foggy didn’t know.

“Who is this?” Matt, quite reasonably, demanded.

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t give a crap who you are,” Matt said, because maybe he honestly didn’t, “but if you hurt him – “

“Mr. Murdock, that is entirely up to you.”

“How do I even know – “

She signaled for the man with the sword to nudge Foggy, who said, “Matt, don’t –“ And then she slapped him across the face, hard enough for Matt to hear and long enough to shut him up. She hung up before anyone could get anything else in to the conversation. He cursed under his breath. His neck was bleeding, but the wound wasn’t deep enough to do anything other than sting.

At which point, the woman lost interest in him completely and started talking to her partner, or whoever he was, and new tape was placed over his mouth, and he was dragged to the other end of the room and ignored.

They really did not give a shit about him. Good and bad, right? Because they started talking in Japanese within speaking distance, and he tried not to look like he was paying attention.

So he was a little rustier than he thought. His class hadn’t covered plans of attack or whatever it was ninjas talked about. It was definitely ninjas, because everyone but the two of them was walking around in a red ninja costume. He did catch some names – “Avengers” “Stick” “Murdock” (which was more like ‘Ma-dokku’) and “Burakku Sukai.” What, were there no Japanese words for ‘black’ and ‘sky’ that could be combined into a name? Foggy did know the word for “dead,” so they were planning on killing Matt and Stick, no surprise there. Or having Stick kill Matt. Or Matt kill Stick.

Matt probably would kill Stick. He wouldn’t want to, but if he felt he had to, to get to Foggy, he might. Or would Stick kill Matt? He was probably more experienced and he did sound like a real scumbag. He obviously had no problems with killing people.

Foggy wanted this all to stop happening. There was no good ending for anyone. He only picked his head up when he heard something he felt he could translate from context – the man asking the woman something like, “ _Can we kill Black Sky?_ ”

“ _No_ ,” the woman answered. He could get that far in. “ _But they [will? Can?] kill each other_.”

*******************************

Meanwhile, in upstate New York, Matt Murdock was furiously cycling through his list of options.

The Avengers seemed to be out. He had their private lines, but Natasha, Clint, and Steve weren’t answering. Straight to voicemail. They were probably on a mission halfway around the world. The only other number he had in his phone was Bruce’s, and he wasn’t totally sure who that was. They’d never spoken. His number just came programmed into the phone. He wasn’t on the social media networks they were using. But he was somebody, and Matt called, pacing furiously through all four rings before Bruce picked up. “Hello?”

“It’s Matt.” He belatedly added, “Murdock.”

“Hi, Matt.” Bruce sounded genial but a little concerned. “What’s up?” He was somewhere with a lot of machines that were humming. There was a power saw somewhere, but it was mostly electronics. And a second heartbeat. He wasn’t alone.

“I can’t reach anybody else. You’re the only number I have left,” he said, wondering how much he should say before deciding that he didn’t care. “They took Foggy. I don’t know who it was, but I think it was the people who are still looking for me. They gave me a location in New Jersey and I don’t have a way of getting there. And they didn’t give me a timeframe.”

“I can try to reach them, but if they’re on a mission, it’ll take time,” Bruce said. “We do have a spare jet. But – are you sure you want to do this?”

Matt growled his answer into the phone. “ _Yes_. Do you have my current location?”

“Your phone has GPS,” said another voice, an unfamiliar one. No, not entirely unfamiliar, but definitely not one Matt could place at the moment, when he was so furious at himself and the world that he could barely speak. “Also, who is this?”

“Not now,” Bruce said to the other person. “I’m taking your jet.”

“You can’t fly it.”

“I can fly it.”

“It’s thumb-coded to me.”

“Why would you do that?”

“So Natasha would stop stealing it, that’s why,” the other man said. “Whoever this is, if you want a ride on _my_ jet – and it is my jet, whatever Bruce says, _I_ built it – please tell me there’s a good explanation for me missing JARVIS’s fajita night.”

Oh, right. Tony Stark. Iron Man. “I’ll explain on the way,” Matt said. He’d heard that distinctive voice in press conferences that seemed to dominate the news cycle. “Just get here.” And he hung up, because he did not have patience for some celebrity superhero right now, not when Foggy’s life was on the line.

There was a return call from Bruce, but he ignored it, and ran to the chapel to find the nearest monk and grab him, hoisting him up with both arms. “Do I own any clothing that’s black?”

*******************************

When Sota got the call, he contacted Stick first, then the Avengers. It wasn’t their deal, but they had jets or could fly or whatever, and Stick had public transportation. Actually, Sota wasn’t entirely sure how Stick got around, or how he beat him to the building overlooking the hotel. It was closed for renovations, and empty of civilians. Or it was supposed to be.

Stick was concentrating. Sota didn’t interrupt that, just slipped in next to him. “Thirty-two heartbeats.” Stick took a deep breath. “There’s five on the fourth floor. Our targets, two guards, one complication. Not a serious one. Just bait for Matt.” He cocked his head to the side. “Are you wearing a fucking costume?”

“It’s a uniform,” Sota replied. “I dyed it black.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because the Hand wears red.”

“Oh.” Stick had been fighting the Hand maybe all of his life, and he answered with only mild curiosity, as if he’d been given trivia he might use in a game show someday. “Well, you look fucking ridiculous.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You _sound_ fucking ridiculous,” Stick corrected. “Most of them are waiting for us at the entrances. Six on the roof. We let the Avengers come in first, take the brunt of it. Don’t engage the little guys. The fourth floor crew wants to stall until Matt gets here, so they’ve lined it with traps.”

“The Avengers will try to stop you.”

“ _Everyone_ will try to stop me,” he said. “I’m used to it.”

“And if Murdock shows?”

Stick shrugged. “You can try to slow him down. Just don’t set him on fire.”

“ _One_ time that happened.”

“It only has to happen one time.”

*******************************

“Are we really going to trust the Hand?” Clint asked, somewhat reasonably, as he positioned the quinjet in striking range of the building, low enough for them to catch a rope down (or just jump, if Steve was feeling like it) and remain out of radar range and close enough to take the place out if they wanted to. It was an empty hotel in New Jersey. No one would give a crap.

“No,” Natasha said. “But they did give us our only lead in months. We can’t waste it.” She looked at the readout. “Looks like maybe twenty in the lobby, another group on the third or fourth floor. And besides, I don’t think they want the attention they would get from killing us.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” Steve said. “Barton?”

Clint, who had every intention of staying in the jet, opened the doors for them. “Watch your head this time, Cap.”

“Very funny.” He was really starting to not like ninjas.

The hotel had every appearance of being an innocent location, with only minimal lighting for safety reasons, and they entered the doors unobstructed. The complex was in large parts fancy metal and glass, good for business conferences but bad for fighting in terms of not getting cut up. Twenty steps in, Natasha raised her gun and shot at the ceiling, bringing down half a dozen red-garbed men waiting in the rafters out of sheer surprise. “Hiding is no fun, boys.”

They weren’t armed with guns, but they had plenty of interesting (and in some cases, just plain confusing) weapons with them, enough to put up a hell of a fight. They had the two of them almost encircled when a blast of fiery air shattered the rotating doors behind them and knocked them off their feet. Steve flipped over to see who it was, and two men in black charged past them, right behind the blast, and leapt right over them.

“Hey!” he shouted when one of them grabbed his shield. Then spit fire at him. Because ninjas.

*******************************

There were five Hand members waiting for them at the elevator. Stick felt them flinch with the little shifts of current it gave in the air. They were scared, possibly of the fireball, possibly because they realized their new enemies weren’t the good guys. They were low-level guys, rent-a-soldiers who put at least the smallest effort into hesitantly throwing a couple punches that would have been easy for a small child to dodge. Stick knocked two in the head with the hilt end of his sword, another with the shield because it was fun, and hit the elevator button. “On two. One – “

Sota got in and they blasted the door as it closed behind them, sealing it shut with fire. Four floors, three floors –

“That’s Captain America’s shield!”

“What?” It was unnaturally light.

“Captain America. You know – “

“I know who he was. He died in ’45. This is some new guy.”

“No, it’s the same guy.”

“Bullshit.”

“You remember the radio show?”

“I grew up on the friggin’ radio show,” Stick said. “That’s how I know he’s dead.”

“No, he was frozen in ice. They thawed him a few years ago.”

“That’s fucking ridiculous.”

One floor. He struck the ceiling with his staff to open the escape hatch.

“I have _personally_ seen you talk to a giant lion turtle,” Sota said as he leapt up to reach the hatch and pull himself out of the elevator car, “and you think that’s ridiculous.”

“The lion turtle wasn’t frozen in ice!” Stick pointed out as he followed him up, and they jumped to the other shaft. The abandoned elevator was about to arrive at its destination. “You take what’s his name.”

“Takeda. The woman is Meifing.”

“Whatever.”

The guards were firing clip after clip into the empty elevator because they were stupid.

“Should we wait for the Avengers to catch up?” Sota didn’t have to speak very loudly for Stick to hear.

He shook his head. “No, that’ll take all night.” He cocked his head and pressed his hand against the cement wall of the shaft. “Incoming.” He didn’t care if the guards heard because it wouldn’t matter in a few seconds. The blast was loud and fast enough to obliterate everything in its path, including knocking out both guards as the side of the building opened up.

What flew in, he had _no idea_.

“Hi guys,” a metallic voice said as a flying ... human-shaped thing entered.

The radio inside the intruder’s body cackled. “ _Stark?_ ”

“Yeah, what a surprise, I have to show up as someone’s plus one to a ninja party. How did that happen exactly?” The machine made a lot of noises as it turned around. It sounded expensive. “Hi Grandpa. Need a lift somewhere?”

“Shouldn’a said that,” Stick said as he passed his sword to Sota. He needed his strong arm free of metal as he drew it back, following the path of electricity in the air.

*******************************

Natasha had made it up the front staircase to the elevator shaft, where she heard a loud, distinctive clank as an Iron-man-shaped item hit the elevator compartment with the force of dead weight and crashed to the floor. The elevator opened to reveal Tony face-up in a suit completely fried by electricity.

“Hi,” he said. “Can you get me out of this before I suffocate? Also, news flash, I take back anything good I said about ninjas.”

“You had something good to say?”

“And I’m telling Pepper to make all of Stark Industries’s holdings handicap _in_ accessible.”

“You can’t –

“ _I’ll_ _pay the fines_!”

*******************************

Foggy was feeling like a pretty incompetent hostage. Or an excellent hostage, from the other perspective. There were explosions downstairs, glass and metal breaking, and bursts of heat from what sounded like fireballs, and his captors paced and looked at their phones. He was afraid to even slowly inch his chair to the side, maybe out of their view, because that would make too much noise.

Then the door was kicked in, and a man walked in carrying a katana and Captain America’s shield. He was not in one of those ninja outfits. He was in army boots, camo pants, and a black sweatshirt. And he wasn’t Asian, he was white. A gnarled old gnome of a white guy with pupils so light they barely had color at all.

Yeah, that must be Stick. Not how Foggy pictured him, but okay, he’d take what he could get.

The woman was ready. She’d been waiting for him. She had a sword – was he actually going to get to see a Kill Bill-style sword battle? Because in any other circumstance that would be cool. “I am Meifing. You killed my brother.”

Stick – because it had got to be Stick – shrugged. “I’ve killed a lot of people. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“He was a child.”

“A Black Sky?” He hdn’t so much as moved into any kind of combat stance. He was just sort of ... standing there, his head raised a little too high, jerking back and forth. Unlike Matt, he made no effort at looking in a particular direction. “Still doesn’t narrow it down much.”

“His name was Kun li!”

“I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere, talking like this.” Without looking at Foggy, he said, “You should run.” Without explaining how Foggy should go about doing that, he hurled the shield at the man in the suit, pinning him to the back wall and nearly destroying it entirely. Behind Stick, a ninja in a black outfit emerged, darted around the woman identified as Meifing, and punched the man right through the damn wall. Fortunately, it was only made of plaster.

Foggy tried to stand up, still attached to the chair, and only succeeded in toppling to the side, where he was more helpless than ever.

“This is between you and me,” Stick said to Meifing.

“I grew up with a Black Sky. I’m not dumb enough to fight you.” With that, she tossed something at him. He easily deflected it with his weapon, but when it struck the metal, it imitated a piercing wave of sound that caused Stick to stagger back, grasping blindly for the door frame. Foggy was hit by the wave, and felt like he was going to be sick as loud ringing filled his ears.

Meifing removed her earplugs. “Now we’ve leveled the playing field, don’t you think?”

Foggy was a good distance away and he could barely hear her. Stick was probably deafened. If Matt used his hearing to see, then the same had to be true for Stick, who stumbled, but didn’t fall. He found his footing very quickly, but it was obvious he hadn’t heard her, and he was barely prepared to block her own blade. He managed to kick her away, and followed up by hurling a blast of fire from his free hand that put her at a distance.

Foggy didn’t want to be here for this. Especially if they were going to burn the place down. He dragged himself to the hallway, alarmed and relieved when he heard a shout at the end of the hallway, coming down the stairs – “Foggy!”

“Mmmmtt!” He knew he was shouting, but it was hard to hear Matt properly through the ringing sound. Then he remembered the duct tape, so there was no way he’d said his name properly.

Matt was dressed in black sweatpants and a hoodie. No mask. Did he really have any need for one? He only had his cane, which he set against the wall and grabbed the chair, pulling it upright. He ripped the tape off. “Sorry,” he said to Foggy’s unmanly scream – this was the second time this had happened to his face, give him some credit – and added, “I think it’s easier for me to just break the chair.”

“Matt, you can’t be here! They want to kill you!” He really was shouting now, but Matt, being Matt, ignored him and kicked the back of the chair in, splintering it somehow so he could pull Foggy out of it, and the chains would be loose enough for his arms to just slip through. Foggy used his newfound freedom to grab his friend. “They want to kill both of you! You have to get out of here. And how did you even – “

“Bruce has a jet on the roof,” Matt said. “It’s two stories up. Can you get there? Can you walk?” He was going into panic mode – protective panic mode, which was dangerously close to Daredevil mode. “Did they hurt you?”

“No! No, Matt, seriously, you cannot stay here, Stick will – “

“I have to stop him, Foggy. I can’t let him – I can’t let anyone else die, because of me.”

“Trust me, I think this thing between him and that crazy lady over more than you. He killed her brother or something. He was a Black Sky?”

Matt didn’t have time to answer because Stick came crashing through the doorway. He wasn’t injured, but he was still disoriented, no matter how fast he jumped to his feet. Matt swerved around Foggy. “Stick.”

Stick didn’t give any indication of hearing him, though he was aggressively sniffing the air between them. “I was wondering when you would get off your pansy ass and show.”

“Matt,” Foggy warned, “He’s de – “

The voice that interrupted them was loud, loud enough for anyone on the floor but possibly Stick to hear. It was electronic, but not entirely inhuman, and it said only one word. “ _Kill_.”

Foggy watched Matt’s body stiffen, his ear cocked in the direction of the voice. Foggy looked to his left and saw Meifing holding a remote control in her hand with a speaker attachment. He barely had time to put two and two together before Matt noiselessly hurled himself at Stick.

Oh G-d. Foggy dashed back in the room, ready to confront Meifing, the woman who had _broken his friend_ , but she had her sword in the other hand and he wasn’t about to take guesses as to how well she could use it. “Don’t be stupid.”

“ _What did you do to him?!_?” Because he was ready to throttle her, sword and all. How hard did he have to be impaled before he bled out? What if it was just a through-and-through?

“Your demon friend had tremendous potential. I unlocked it, just as the Chaste has done to so many others. The Hand and the Chaste both use people. Don’t think one side is better than the other. That I’m any worse than the high-and-mighty Stick.”

“I don’t have a great opinion of him, either.” He looked around for weapons, and saw the Captain America shield embedded in the wall. No way to get to it without going through Crazy Vengeance Lady. He wanted to explain to her that he didn’t want to be a hero, he just wanted to make it out of here alive, and he wanted Matt to make it out of here alive, because Matt didn’t deserve this, but he suspected that was not within her capacity to understand. After all, everything that happened up till now had been her doing. It made him want to throttle her, not run for safety.

He didn’t get his chance, but he did get an opening when the black-clad ninja and Takeru came back through the hole in the wall, their own fight spilling into the space. Meifing was distracted long enough for Foggy to dart for the shield – which, wow, was really light – and duck back out of the room. None of them followed.

The hallway was torn apart. The sprinklers must have been disabled because part of the carpet was on fire. Matt was kicking the wall after missing Stick, who was perpetually in motion. He must have known it was Matt because he wasn’t precisely hitting back, but he was blasting fire in all directions in short bursts, ducking out of the way of a swing or a kick with just a sliver of luck.

They were meant to kill each other. That was that his captors had said, in their crazy, mixed up way, right? Or at least one would kill the other, and the second would be too wounded, too easy to take out. Foggy decided he wasn’t going to let that happen. He took a deep breath and closed the space between him and Matt, stepping between him and the flailing Stick, and hurled himself against Matt’s body with enough force to tackle him to the ground. The shield helped – a lot – but Foggy had one advantage, and it was weight, and how disoriented Matt was, focused on his real target.

He barely recognized him. The look in Matt’s eyes – it wasn’t focused, it couldn’t be truly different, but it wasn’t the same. He hurled both fists at Foggy, apparently oblivious to how much pain it must have cost him to hit only the vibranium between them.

“Matt!” he shouted. “Matt, this isn’t you. You don’t want to do this!” He had to kneel with one knee deep into Matt’s chest to keep him on the ground. “You don’t want to hurt anyone. I know that you don’t. Come back to me.” He peered just a little over the edge of the shield, to be rewarded with a bunch from bloodied knuckles that almost broke his nose. “Christ, Matt! Can you smell that? Can you smell that blood?” He forced the shield down over Matt’s face. “I know you don’t want to hurt me.” But Matt kept swinging, even if he couldn’t find flesh to hit. “I won’t let you kill Stick. I won’t let you kill anyone.” _I can do this all day_ , he thought, even though he knew he couldn’t. If Stick came back – or Meifing, or anyone other than the Avengers – he was toast. “Your name is Matthew Michael Murdock and you’re my best friend. You’re not an animal, you’re not a demon, and you don’t have to do what a voice tells you to do!”

Matt responded by head-butting Foggy. It wasn’t particularly hard, but it was enough to throw him back, far enough that Matt pulled in his knee and kicked the shield back, taking Foggy with it. Free of another person’s weight, Matt climbed to his feet. He was hunched over, taking heavy, concentrated breaths, his unfocused eyes particularly eerie in the way they stared straightforward in complete concentration. His eyes looked dead.

The only thing between Matt and his target, Foggy belated realized, was him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone want to guess the trivia significance of Foggy's passcode?
> 
> Also, for people who don't know what Firebending looks like, here it is:
> 
> http://devilofmidtownwest.tumblr.com/post/125248958154/korra-firebending-for-reference-for


	17. The Devil Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end! The next chapter is just an epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what [firebending looks like](http://devilofmidtownwest.tumblr.com/post/125248958154/korra-firebending-for-reference-for).
> 
> This is what [ airbending looks like](http://devilofmidtownwest.tumblr.com/post/125410961799/aang-airbending-what-airbending-looks-like).

The most logical thing to do was run. Not that Foggy thought he could get far – they were in a tight hallway that was partially on fire. He didn’t know if the doors that were closed were locked, and if the broken doors _could_ be locked. He could easily run right into Stick, who was armed, deafened, and more blind than usual, and apparently capable of tossing around fireballs like he was some anime character. That wouldn’t be any better. But at least _Matt_ wouldn’t be the one to kill him.

But the person standing in front of him wasn’t really Matt. For the first time, Foggy was looking at the real Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, the one who had earned that name. “Daredevil” took it down a notch from what it was – frightening as shit. Matt had talked about his dad, how he could transform so completely, how it scared his opponents when they recognized it, how they knew they were about to lose.

“Matt,” he pleaded. “Matt, okay, so you’re the Devil. But you’re not just the Devil. You’re also my friend. And you don’t want to do this.”

He looked down at the shield, which had fallen between them. If he picked it up, he would have at least a little cover. He dove for it, but so did Matt, who got it first and hurled it at him.

No, not _at_ him. Above him, at the glass wall at the end of the hallway, which shattered, leaving a new exit into space that must have been one of the lobbies. And it was that exist that Matt hurled himself towards, and out.

Foggy heard a splash and darted for the hole, almost cutting himself on the edges in the process. Beneath and a bit in front of him, four stories down, was a swimming pool. Could Matt swim? He had to be able to. Foggy remembered him showing up in his own apartment, soaked to the bone, when it wasn’t raining. But the way Matt hit the water was not so good. It made an ugly sound, like meat slapping against a soft surface, and there was blood in the water. Matt was in it, but he wasn’t swimming to safety.

“Shit.” Foggy stepped back, shedding his coat and tie. “Shit, shit shit.” He was really grateful for just wearing loafers. It bought him a few extra seconds. “G-d damnit, Matt.” He looked down. One end of the pool said DIVING AREA in bold letters. “G-d damn you.”

He took a deep breath and jumped out the window.

*******************************

Stick wanted to curse up a storm himself, but he needed to maintain his focus. If he could find Meifing he could kill her, but smells didn’t carry like sounds. They were too imprecise, and there were other people in the nearby room, mixing up currents in the air. Matty was gone at least, so that was one less problem to handle.

He held her off. She was still timid despite all her tricks, and he had fire and airbending, so he could least keep the area around him clear. He hated relying on it, especially in front of the Hand.

The ringing in his ears was already receding. He just needed time.

There was copper in the air, more than before. A man’s. Takeda’s? Hopefully. From the heat of fire and the way it moved in the air, Sota was around, probably fighting off both of them. Stick found the wall, then the hole the robot guy had made. He could retreat into the elevator shaft, wait for things to calm down, then come back out. Maybe those Avengers were good for something.

Something – someone came in from behind, and he kicked a gust of air out from beneath him, but it wasn’t fast or strong enough to get rid of her. He blamed his airbending spirit teacher, the annoying little shit. How was he supposed to learn bending from a little kid? Stick didn’t care _who_ he was when he was alive or how many elements he said he’d mastered. He was an annoying brat. His cheerful attitude made it worse.

But, come to think of it, he could really use Aang’s advice right now. And he hated admitting that. Almost as much as he hated getting stabbed, and he _really_ hated that. But he had thrown her off, just enough that the sowrd missed his heart. Her blade was lodged between his shoulder and collarbone, too deep a wound for her to easily withdraw and reclaim her weapon. And he had pain now, and pain was a great source of focus. It blotted out everything else, and the rush of adrenaline that followed was what he needed to spin around. Meifing was still holding her weapon, which meant she was close enough for him to find, and grab with one hand, and for him to cut apart with the other.

Not his most graceful beheading, but what the fuck. He was tired. It would do.

*******************************

Steve was more than a little relieved to see his shield bouncing off the concrete walls of the lobby. Sometimes it seemed like that thing had a mind of its own. Stark wanted to put a tracking device on it, but he also didn’t want to mess with the shield’s unique vibrational properties. That it took out one of the last ninjas also helped. Steve had had his hands full; Natasha was busy cutting Stark out of his armor and trying to reassure Bruce over the comm that this was not a “code green” no matter what kind of spill Tony had taken.

Steve punched the last guy in a red suit who was still standing and looked up just in time to see another guy come crashing down after being hurled out a window. This guy was in black, and he hit the carpet in an awful way, but he was already bleeding. He was followed by another guy, who somehow landed on his feet despite the jump, and tore off his mask before holding up his hands. “I’m your contact.”

“And that’s ...” Steve uncomfortably gestured to the dead guy.

“Your target. One of them,” the old Japanese man said through a considerable accident. “Stick is handling the other.”

“I thought we didn’t want that to happen.”

The old man shrugged. He looked tired. “Murdock. We must find him.”

“He’s safe. He’s far away.”

The ninja-assassin-whatever guy shook his head. “Stark brought him.”

“Stark!”

“Hey,” Stark said over Natasha’s comm. “He called me. Or Bruce, to be more precise. Because he said you were _busy_.”

He hated when Tony Stark had a point.

*******************************

Foggy hit the water curled up in a ball. He had never been a good diver, and as hard as it would be on his skin, he liked having his vital organs covered up. A cannonball from four stories up meant he sunk pretty far down, but he recovered quickly and swam to the surface. Matt was only a few feet away, though the temporary current meant he didn’t reach him as fast as he wanted to. This was not the proper way to do it – he should never have gotten in the water with a drowning victim – but desperate times called for desperate measures, and he grabbed Matt and dragged him to the shallow end. As soon as his feet could touch the bottom, he repositioned Matt to make sure he wasn’t further choking him and pulled him to the stairs and out of the water, laying him on the ground.

“Matt?” He checked, and Matt did not appear to be breathing. There was water coming out of his mouth and his eyes were shut. “Matt, if you can hear me, say something.”

After a round of chest compressions, he put a palm on Matt’s clammy forehead and tilted his head back to open the airway, then restarted, this time harder. He might crack a rib, but it would be worth it to get Matt breathing again. Brain death started when – okay, he didn’t want to calculate that. He needed to focus on other things. After five sets of compressions, he would need to –

But he wouldn’t need to. After a particularly hard hit, Matt coughed, bringing up a considerable amount of pool water in the process. “Hey,” Foggy said gently. “It’s gonna be okay.” He turned him on his side, so Matt could vomit up the rest of it. “You’re okay.”

After more coughing, Matt’s armed started flailing wildly. “Fog - ?”

Foggy caught one of Matt’s hands and put it against his face. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.”

Matt took a deep, mostly unobstructed breath and put his head back against the floor. His fingers rested on Foggy’s face, feeling all of the little grooves and bumps. His nose was also pretty swollen, and Foggy tried not to flinch when Matt touched it. “Foggy. Sorry, it’s – the chlorine – “

“Yeah, whoever’s taking care of this pool uses way too much of it.” His eyes and ears were burning, too. He couldn’t smell much of anything. “No wonder the hotel is closed.”

“Where are – I was going to –“ Matt couldn’t finish that sentence. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Matt. I’m okay.” It was, remarkably, somewhat true. His nose was possibly broken, he was out his most expensive suit, and he’d almost been killed by his best friend, but he was okay. “And you’re G-ddamn lucky I was a lifeguard in high school.”

“Yeah.” Matt swallowed. “Foggy, I was going to – “

“You were, but you didn’t.” And he didn’t want to dwell on it. He took Matt’s hand and squeezed it in his own.

“I thought – I thought the water might stop me. Wake me up.” He left unsaid what would have happened if he’d missed the pool. Or if there hadn’t been a pool there in the first place. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know. Christ, I know. And don’t you dare talk to me about language when I just saved your life.”

Matt smiled. “I think the situation might have called for it.”

They were going to be okay. For the first time in two years, Foggy was sure of it.

*******************************

When the fighting seemed to have stopped, Bruce finally ventured past the unconscious guards on the roof and down to the floor, carrying his medical kit with him. He wasn’t surprised to find dead or unconscious red-clad people in the hallway where Tony had made an Iron Man-shaped hole in the wall, but he did pause at the bloodied man meditating in the hallway, his sword laid out neatly in front of him.

“I don’t need your help,” he said before Bruce got within five feet of him.

“Is that blood all yours?”

“Most of it.” He opened his eyes, but did not look in Bruce’s direction. “I’ll be fine.” He put his sword back in its sheath and used it as a cane to lift himself into a very unsteady standing position. “I’d tell you to get of my way, but I don’t think I want to piss you off.”

“At least let me check your – wherever you’re hurt.”

The old man sighed. He tilted his head, and it was then Bruce noticed that his eyes were almost white. Well, a second blind ninja in one night wasn’t _that_ much of a surprise. “It’s just a cut in the shoulder. I cauterized the wound so the bleeding’s stopped. No biggie.” But he stumbled when he tried to walk, and Bruce caught him. “You’re smaller than you sound.”

Bruce had no idea what to do with that statement. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment? At least let me give you a hand.”

“No drugs.”

“I’m not going to give you anything without your consent.” Though honestly, he was wondering how this guy was still conscious and able to express his concerns, considering the amount of blood covering his clothing. “I’m Dr. Banner. What’s your name?”

“John,” the old man said, before slumping against Bruce’s body and passing out cold.

*******************************

Stick had been right – Matt did feel a certain, uncomfortable satisfaction in hearing that the two remaining people responsible for nearly destroying him and taking away two years of his life were dead. It had a finality to it that nothing else could offer. But he didn’t feel like celebrating, and just responded with a quiet “okay” while Clint checked him for injuries and wrapped up his hands. He’d broken five knuckles by punching Captain America’s shield. Tony’s drone army was arriving, to round up the remaining Hand members.

One of the men still standing was introduced by Natasha. “This is Sota. He helped us negotiate with the Hand for this location.”

Sota sounded nervous, and Matt picked up on it instantly. “I know you. You tried to help me.”

Sota bowed. “I failed. Please forgive me.”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, of course.” He wanted to find something to do with his hands other than have them hang listlessly at his sides, but they both throbbed from his injuries and he’d refused painkillers. “You worked for them?”

“Officially, I was allowed to retire to pursue spiritual matters,” Sota explained, “but I was still a consultant.”

“About Black Sky.”

“Yes.”

“They were talking about that before you came,” Foggy said. “Black Sky. Or Black Skies. My Japanese isn’t that good.”

Sota said nothing, but Matt knew he had plenty to say. “If you want to make amends, tell us what Black Sky is.”

“The answer will make you very angry.”

Foggy sighed impatiently. “Yeah, we get that a lot.”

But it still wasn’t enough. Matt calmed his voice down to a whisper and said, “I think I deserve to know.”

Sota would only talk in private, away from the Avengers and their robots and their surveillance equipment. They found a spot on the now-destroyed lobby, where some couches remained that were not hurled across the room or torn in half. “Black Sky is not a demon. Black Sky is a _type_ of demon. We don’t use its true name. Bad luck.”

“Stick said it was a weapon.”

“A Black Sky is a demon, born inside the body of a child. When the infant draws its first breath, the demon fuses with the human soul. At this moment, they are equals, both very weak. As the child grows, the demon grows, but always a little faster, a little stronger, because it has a connection to the Spirit World that the child does not have. Eventually, it is strong enough to come out, or be called out by the right incantations. There are a few years where control of the body can go back and forth between them, but in the end, the child always loses, and the demon takes over entirely. This usually occurs around puberty, and if the process doesn’t kill both of them, what remains must be killed by more conventional means.”

“Stick kills Black Skies.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of a fact. “But the Hand uses them.”

“That small window of time, usually a few years but sometimes only months, when the demon is strong enough to be controlled and used, that is what the Hand exploits,” Sota explained patiently. “They find Black Skies when they are young, raise them to follow orders, and wait for the precise time to use them as forces of pure destruction. This can only end in death for the child. The Chaste seeks to prevent the damage before it is done.”

“It really is too late for those kids?” Foggy sounded suspicious, but he’d probably heard crazier things lately.

“Stick would never kill someone if there was time to save them, and he was trained by Master Izo, founder of the Chaste and an expert on the subject.”

“So they can be saved,” Matt noticed.

Sota sighed. He wanted to stop talking, to continue holding back. His heartbeat was increasing in anticipation of Matt’s reaction. “Black Sky cannot use an imperfect vessel. If the child is born severely deformed – or if it is crippled at a very young age, before the demon is strong – Black Sky cannot come out, and goes dormant.”

Matt didn’t know a lot about the Chaste. He could guess as to why they were called that – Stick made his opinions of physical attachments pretty clear – but he knew almost nothing about their origin or membership. He knew he’d killed two, one blind and the other missing a limb. He knew Stick was blind from birth, and his mentor, who must have been this Izo guy, was also blind. Stick was training an army – presumably to fight the Hand – and Matt was supposed to be one of them.

There was not a lot of distance between them but he surprised himself by how quickly he crossed it, and how Sota didn’t fight him when he throttled the old man, lifting him up by the neck. “I was blinded. In. _An_. _Accident_.”

“Matt, chill,” Foggy said. “Or don’t. Fuck this guy. He’s lying.”

“He’s not,” Matt said, thinking very hard about how easy it would be to crush Sota’s throat. He could do it with one hand. He doubted the guy would fight him. He was so small and brittle. “He’s not lying. Everyone in the Chaste – “

“ – is a Black Sky, yes.” Sota gasped and Matt forced himself to loosen his aching fingers, only now remembering that some of them were broken. “Izo was the first. He tore his own eyes out to prevent Black Sky from taking over his body. He said it helped him see the world better.”

“I’d say keep strangling him, but you’ll probably feel bad about it later,” Foggy pointed out. “Also _I_ want a chance.”

Matt inhaled. In and out. In and out. Find his center, just like that shithead Stick taught him to. He set Sota down on the ground. “Just because you’re not lying doesn’t mean you’re right.”

“I can’t say for sure who it was. Probably Izo. But whoever it was, he saved you. He saved your soul. You would have become one of those children, and you would have died horribly. Like Meifing’s brother, and the boy they tried to bring into New York. You were spared from all that. It was the best anyone could do.” He bowed again. “I told them to let you go not only because it was cruel but because they did not understand what they were doing. But I knew in the end, you would defeat them.”

“I didn’t want them to die. That was Stick – I tried to stop him.”

“You defeated them by not becoming a monster. Black Sky is a part of you but it is inactive. You are still in control of your own destiny, and you have chosen to be a good man.”

“If I _choose_ to believe you,” Matt said, still holding on to the fabric of Sota’s torn uniform, “is there anything you can – “

“You cannot be separated from Black Sky. The process would kill you,” Sota said. “And there are advantages. Izo has been alive for five hundred years. He has mastered four eleme – “

“I don’t care!” He wanted to grab him again, or grab something, but making a fist really did hurt. “Do you think I want to be a monster like Stick?”

“Stick is your teacher! And he is not a monster!” Sota stepped back and shrugged off Matt’s failing grip. Now he did not sound so old or tired. “He has lived his whole life to protect the human world from demons and save lives like yours. He has given up everything that could have stood in the way. He has no family, no friends, no home. He only has enemies and ungrateful students like you. I will let you be angry at me, and anyone else here, but not him!”

With both of them aghast at Sota’s anger, he used the opportunity to stagger off, sore from his own exhaustion and wounds and probably needing medical attention.

Foggy was the first to recover, but not quickly. “He’s a crazy old man.”

“I know,” Matt replied. “I need to find Stick.”

“Matt – “

Matt held up his hand to indicate that he’d at least heard Foggy, then shoved his way through crowds of unhelpful drone bots on cleanup and out to the jet in front of the building, where Bruce was standing next to the temporary medical setup. “Stick was here. Where did he go?”

“Who?”

“Blind guy. Old. No idea what he looks like.”

“Oh. He let me put six stitches in him before he regained consciousness, then said he had somewhere to be. I tried to stop him, but – “

“Which way did he go?”

Bruce pointed, then realized, “Um ... your eight o’clock?”

“Thanks.” He took off running. His nose was cleared now, and he could pick up things beyond chlorine – blood (a lot of it, mostly his own), sweat, the wood finish on Stick’s sword case. The road went nowhere in particular that he knew of, just away from the action. And he knew Stick was lying about having somewhere to be.

When he actually caught up, though, Matt realized he wasn’t sure what to say. The lawyer in him could have come up with a list of accusations, but that wasn’t where his brain went. Stick turned around, pausing his slow, heavy gait with expectancy. Matt let him speak first.

“So? No speeches about good and evil? How I don’t know the difference?”

“...No,” Matt managed. He could hear his own breathing louder than anything else. He listened to Stick’s heart. As always, it was calm and steady, betraying absolutely nothing. He didn’t know how he felt about that. He couldn’t get a handle on it.

“Well, good. Maybe you have learned something.” But Stick was not smiling. “You gonna stand there all night acting like someone just slapped you around or can I go?”

“Black Sky,” was all he said.

“Yeah, sure. You’re a Black Sky. I’m a Black Sky. Who the fuck the cares? It means nobody’s special.” Stick stepped forward and pressed his finger into Matt’s chest. “And if they find out they will kill you. Not the Hand. They know better. When you were just a little blind kid people ignored you like the weakling you were. You’re not that kid anymore. Instead you’ll be hunted. People will want to destroy you to get to the untapped evil inside of you. Do you feel better, knowing you’re carrying that around?” Now he was smiling, and it was awful. “You always knew. Some bullshit about the devil inside you. I was trying to teach you to put it to use, but you were too much of a sap to be warrior, and you still are. You’re not a demon. You’re a fucking disappointment.”

Maybe for the first time, Matt wondered how Stick saw him. He was born blind and had no frame of reference for distances or colors. He obviously didn’t care to pretend otherwise. His head was rarely in the right direction and he over-used his cane around even people who knew him. He acted like he hated the world, and everyone in it.

Matt thought about what that would be like. It took time to imagine.

Stick turned around, cursing under his breath, and restarted his journey to nowhere.

“Stick,” Matt said, and Stick stopped.

“What the hell is it this time?”

Matt couldn’t face him. Not that it mattered, but he kept his head down. He didn’t like the idea of being looked at, even if he wasn’t. “Stick, you are an asshole.”

“I’m not going to deny that.”

“You were a shitty teacher. You expected me to pick up everything just listening to you and you never told me anything. Even a halfway decent strip mall karate teacher can figure out how to point a blind kid’s fist in the right direction, but you couldn’t manage that,” he said. “Instead you beat the shit out of me when I was completely defenseless. You taught me to use my senses to learn things about people I didn’t want to know and now I can’t shut it off. I can’t eat food without listing all the ingredients in my head. I can’t walk in a doctor’s office or a hospital without knowing who’s dying and maybe whether they know it or not. And you never taught me what to do with any of that information except avoid everyone around me and hate myself.” His fingers tensed when he tried to ball his fists, sending aches up both his arms to remind him what he’d done to them. “And then you abandoned me when I really needed you. You must have known exactly what I felt and exactly what it would do to me in the long run, but you did it anyway, and I think you did it because you _were_ getting attached, and you were afraid of what that might mean and how it would cramp your lifestyle. You had a chance to take some responsibility beyond fighting and killing and you completely dropped the ball. You couldn’t handle a single adult responsibility. That’s why everyone’s mad at you, why your teacher is mad at you, why I’m still mad at you, why you’re mad at yourself.” He lifted his head so he was facing Stick. He knew he would understand the gesture. “I forgive you.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I said, I forgive you,” Matt repeated, more sure of himself this time. “It doesn’t erase it. We’re still both fuck-ups. But you’re forgiven. For everything shitty you’ve ever done to me.”

Stick balked. “I didn’t ask for any fucking forgiveness.”

“And I’m not offering,” Matt replied. “I’m _giving it_ to you. If you want me to hate you again, you’ll have to start over.” He paused, but Stick could not manage to put any words together. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“I have a mission.”

“That’s not what I asked. You’re homeless, unemployed, and injured.” Matt swallowed and repeated, “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“And if I said no? What would you fucking do then, invite me to your medieval hut for tea and Jesus wafers?”

“They’re not a great snack food,” he said. “But yes. I would.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because you need it.”

Stick struck him with his staff. It was a slow, well-choreographed shot. Matt didn’t block. He took it right in the jaw, and between the weight of it and the different kinds of exhaustion he was experiencing, he toppled right over. Besides, if he stayed up, Stick would keep hitting.

He hadn’t been unaware of Foggy’s presence when he caught up to them but until that moment had stayed a respectful distance away. Foggy knelt at his side, and Matt insisted, “Let him go.”

“Matt, he – “

“Just do it.”

Stick hesitated. He was definitely thinking of hitting Matt again. He was thinking of beating him into the ground until there was nothing left. That kind of body language was easy to read. But he stopped himself, straightened his body into a more neutral stance, and said, “See ya around, kid.”

Stick left, and this time, no one tried to stop him.


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this post took so long. I'm traveling and it was hard to schedule a post, and I never post Friday nights or Saturdays because I'm offline.
> 
> I am working on a sequel. I prefer to get pretty far into a text before starting to post it, so it'll probably be a while. It'll explore Matt's journey back to being Matt Murdock, attorney-at-law and possibly Daredevil, with all of the changes that have happened to him over the course of two years. And may feature a giant lion turtle. And Claire! I should add that.
> 
> Please send in your comments about what you'd like to see covered in the next fic and I'll do my best to respond. I may also post things at [my Daredevil-related tumblr](http://devilofmidtownwest.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, please sign off on what you liked and didn't like. Comments feed the beast.
> 
> Happy reading!

 

2 Months Later

Summit, New Jersey

“They don’t even have handicapped parking. They have to have handicapped parking. We should sue.” Foggy held his arm out, and Matt took it. “Ten steps up.”

“We’re not suing nuns,” he said with a laugh. “I read about it online. They have a campaign going to raise money for it. You should make a donation instead.”

“They have a nice garden. Or, grass. They have nice grass.” The entrance to the basilica was very small, barely wide enough to accommodate a person. Fortunately they were there at an off hour, and an elderly nun was there to greet them. Matt could smell the incense and woodwork from the gift shop. He was going to be walking out with a lot of handmade soap.

He introduced himself as being a pilgrim, and the sister showed him around the small chapel with the familiar ease of ritual. They had copy of the Shroud of Turin, made in the presence of the original, but since it was inside a sealed glass case, she described it for him. Foggy helped with the rest, including the gold cross at the top of the altar. The pews smelled of the wool robes of the nuns. Salty tears had made their stains over time, and he could feel their patches as he ran his hands over the wood smoothed by hours of hands bent in supplication. It was all familiar and comforting, as it was meant to be.

There was a priest to hear confessions. Matt folded up his cane and stepped inside. After all this time, he still had to remind himself that he wasn’t trapped and could leave at any time. Instincts lingered. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three days since my last confession.” He played with the rosary beads between his fingers. “I’ve used profanity twelve times and I’ve fallen asleep at Mass. And taken the L-rd’s name in vain. Twice. But that was because of some hazardous driving.” He knew the priest was trying to keep himself from smiling. “This trip is to complete my penance for other sins. One of the other steps was to pray for the strength to forgive myself. I’ve tried, but ...” He didn’t feel he had to explain further. “I have this teacher. He helped me when I was young, but he was also abusive. He’s ... not in a good place. I tried to help him, but I just drove him away. I’ve tried to find him since, but he’s gone off the grid. No one can find him. I wish ...” Matt sighed. “I don’t know what I should have done differently.”

“Do you still want to help him?”

“Of course.”

“Then put aside your pride,” the priest said. “As you may know, a person must open themselves up to forgiveness to feel it. This requires some self-motivation, and that only G-d can provide. So pray for him to open his heart to the L-rd.”

Matt chuckled. “I don’t think he’s even Christian.”

“That shouldn’t change your prayer.” The priest then told him to pray the rosary for these sins and absolved him.

He crossed himself before the altar and knelt at the bench, where they had cushions for people with weak knees or old joints. He tuned out the heartbeats in the chapel and Foggy’s tapping away at his phone in the back row. Matt knew the rosary by heart. He knew all of the appropriate prayers by heart, in Latin and English. He could say things listlessly or with meaning. He knew all of the dimensions of the wooden altar in front of him, but not what any of it looked like.

This was supposed to be the end of his journey. He would be returning to Hell’s Kitchen, and eventually to work, at least the legal kind. He would reconnect with old friends. His day would have the familiar rhythms that dominated most of his life. He would be able to move forward.

Being a realistic person, he wondered if any of that would be true. He would have to have faith.

Matt bowed his head and prayed for himself. And then he prayed for Stick.

 

 

The End


End file.
